by Matt James
“That’s one!” Bull yelled, diving forward as another flurry of projectiles pinged off the bed frame.
A single bullet pierced the cab’s back window, shattering it into a million pieces. Hawk shrieked and disappeared into the footwell. Chaska didn’t even flinch. Jack doubted the man had even noticed the damage or felt the window explode into the interior of his truck.
“Getting awfully breezy!” Chaska shouted, swerving back and forth. “Going to need my coat tonight!”
Hawk popped up and screamed into the bed at Jack and Bull. His voice cracked like a teenager’s. “Is this guy serious?”
A bullet impacted the frame just above his head. His eyes went wide, and he yelped and dove back into the truck.
“Seatbelts!” Chaska called out, slamming on the brakes.
A second later, the first of the two pursuing vehicles rear-ended them. And as Chaska had done before, he pulled away without so much of a glance. He was quite literally the perfect getaway driver. He was fearless, though, unlike a professional, he had no idea that he was. Jack slid to the rear of the bed and hit the lid, cheese grating his exposed skin on the way. Astonishingly, it fell open and nearly dumped Jack onto the road and into fast-moving traffic. Bull caught Jack’s outstretched arm and hung on.
“Uncle!” Hawk shouted, shimmying halfway outside. He snagged Bull’s belt and tried to draw his gun but couldn’t unless he let go. Jack had nearly lost his weapon. For a second, he thought about tossing it behind Bull but held onto it for dear life.
“Holy shiiit!” Jack shouted.
His feet skidded across the asphalt as Chaska took another turn without slowing. For whatever reason, the shooting had stopped, not that Jack was complaining. None of them would be able to return fire while he was dangling like a worm on a hook.
The road turned to grass, and Jack got a kooky idea.
“Chaska, slow down!”
“Okay!”
“What? No!” Hawk countered but to no avail.
When Chaska eased up, Jack gave Bull a wink and yanked free of his friend’s grasp. Like a log on a hill, he went rolling for what seemed like forever. Chaska came to a stop and cried out in surprise. He was on all fours—directly in front of one of the black SUVs. Even though he was dizzy, Jack still had the wherewithal to leap out of the way. As he did, he emptied his magazine into the passenger side tires. The lead vehicle jerked to the side, hit a concrete park bench, and flipped ass over teakettle.
Slowly, Jack climbed to his feet and wobbled for a moment. He waited for the planet to stop spinning, blinking his eyes hard. When it settled, he staggered toward the overturned automobile. Luckily, the third and final SUV was nowhere in sight. Jack reloaded his pistol and stumbled forward as Chaska turned and headed back to him.
Suddenly, the driver’s side door flung open. Gun up, Jack watched a bleeding man spill out onto the park lawn. Jack waited for him to get up before he took another breath. He didn’t move. Releasing his air, Jack stepped lightly. It was plain to see that the driver wasn’t trying to deceive him, though. He was critically injured and unconscious.
Without a second to spare, Jack dove into the man’s pockets and found his wallet. Know thy enemy. He flipped the brown leather billfold open and saw something that made his skin go cold. But it was also something that didn’t shock him. It was a badge—a Cascade Police Department badge. Chaska pulled up next to Jack, and Bull and Hawk quickly joined him.
“Friggin’ dirty cops,” Hawk said, weapon in hand.
A car horn blared somewhere back the way they had come. They were about to have company.
“Gotta go,” Jack grunted, limping away.
They piled into Chaska’s truck and took off. Jack needed a break, though sitting up front with Chaska wouldn’t be much of one. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his palms. His lower back, and ass, were killing him, as were seven or eight other parts of his body.
“Rough day?”
Jack paused the orbital massage and peeked over at Chaska. The old-timer was honestly asking him how his day was. There was no ill will in anything he said.
“You have no idea.” He sighed. “Literally…”
The pickup truck carrying Jack Reilly and his team was nowhere in sight. The maneuvers the driver had displayed were that of a seasoned veteran. Zietz was sure of it. Jack had called in a professional. There was more to the man’s past than they knew. If he was who Zietz thought he was, looking into it would be a waste of time.
CIA? He was impressed, and at the same time, concerned.
Regardless, Jack had been military at one point. That much was clear. Whatever it was he had done, and whatever his work was now, he’d never find out because it would be swept under the rug.
Zietz’s driver stopped twenty feet back from the overturned vehicle. Inside of it was a trio of off-duty police officers who owed the casino a great deal of money. Instead of seeking payment from them, Zietz had offered the men a chance to work it off by aiding him in a few off-the-books operations. The other two SUVs had been filled with casino security personnel. They worked exclusively for Zietz and Creed.
Opening his door, Zietz stepped out and was buffeted by a sharp breeze. Luckily, there was minimal lighting within the park at the southern end of Cascade. The lack of decent illumination would help conceal what he was about to do. Drawing his pistol, he screwed on a thick, barrel-shaped object onto its muzzle. He stepped up to the first man he found and shot him point-blank in the head. The suppressor caused the bullet to exit with a crisp thwap instead of a loud, reverberating concussion. “Silencers” didn’t silence anything—like Hollywood consistently presented its audiences. But they did soften the report quite a bit.
He knelt and aimed inside the upside-down SUV and pulled the trigger of his gun twice more. Each shot found its mark. Zietz didn’t like to take risks. In this case, he wouldn’t risk these men talking and exposing his and Creed’s efforts. They were better off dead.
His phone vibrated as he climbed back into the front passenger-side door. The number wasn’t programmed into his phone. None were. It was another security measure of his. The number was that of the casino’s basement security office. It was where he was holding the Durham men.
“What?” he asked, getting to the point.
“We, uh, have a problem, sir.”
Zietz rolled his eyes. “I know we have a ‘problem,’ Patrick. Be more specific.”
“Before our…guests…left, they, um, copied today and yesterday’s security feed from inside Mr. Creed’s office to a thumb drive.”
“What?” Zietz roared, nearly crushing his phone.
“They copied the feed to a—”
“I heard you, Patrick!”
The other man audibly swallowed. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Should I notify Mr. Creed?”
“No,” Zietz quickly replied. “I’ll take care of this.” He lowered his voice. “And if you do tell Mr. Creed, it’ll be the last thing you ever say. Am I clear?”
“Y—yes, sir,” Patrick replied, his voice catching. “I understand.” He took a deep breath. “What should I do in the meantime?”
Zietz thought about how easily this could be traced back to the casino. They needed to cleanse the system of everything to do with Jack Reilly and his friends. It was the only way to ensure their amnesty. Judges typically frowned upon killing three police officers in cold blood. He relayed the information to his man back inside the Black Buffalo.
“But, sir, why? Why erase his presence from our servers?”
“Because, Patrick, I’m going to kill him.”
Zietz hung up and wanted nothing more than to throw his phone out the window. But he still had a call to make. He dialed the number and growled when the cop didn’t pick up immediately. Zietz wasn’t exactly a patient person.
Finally, the call connected. “Yes?”
Zietz got right to the point. “Franklin, I need to know the driver’s name and address. Then, I need you to go and ha
ve a chat with him.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a wise move,” Franklin replied. “My boss is already up my ass about wrecking my truck outside the casino this afternoon. Luckily, he bought my story hook, line, and sinker. He thinks it was a group of anti-police extremists from down south that shot out the engine instead.”
“Nothing has been linked to our involvement?” Zietz asked.
“No. Nothing.”
“Good. Now, about the driver…”
Franklin mumbled something but relented. “Copy that. I’ll take care of it after my shift. I’ll bring Sizemore along too. You coming?”
“No.”
Zietz wanted to, but he had other things to take care of. He was loyal to Creed, but if the thumb drive found the light of day, Zietz would need to relocate himself and his family quickly. He had set up contingencies for situations like this years ago.
“Oh, and Franklin?” Zietz asked.
“Yeah?”
“The driver might not be alone.”
“Yeah? And if he’s not?”
Zietz grinned. “Use your imagination.”
Interstate 90
Outside Cascade, Wyoming
Eugene Taft was an incredibly patient man. If all went according to plan, he would only be required to meet with Bartholomew Creed for a few minutes. Then, it was back to Los Angeles. The flight was short, which was nice. The rental car and personal driver were also delightful and something he regularly used back home.
His mousy demeanor and slight build made the investors’ representative seem like a pushover. But once you met Taft, you realized why he was in such an important position. He was confident and owned an almost superhuman intensity.
With the partition between him and the driver raised, he enjoyed the silence and marveled in the nothingness surrounding him. It was an entirely different lifestyle than he was accustomed to. The hustle and bustle of Los Angeles, as well as the people he worked for, had taught him to celebrate the quiet times and reminded him to occasionally slow down and breathe.
His fingers tapped on his briefcase. What was inside was why he was here. Creed had dodged his attempts one too many times. This meeting was his last chance to pay back his loan, though, he was also interested in what the casino owner’s lawyer, Mr. Taylor, had told him. The discovery of a long-lost treasure might be enough to push back the payment. If neither came to fruition, Creed would have to deal with what was coming to him.
The thought made the corner of Taft’s mouth curl upward.
Maybe this meeting won’t be so dull after all.
12
Chaska’s Home
After retrieving Bull’s truck from the parking lot at the foot of Devils Tower, the group then headed to Chaska’s place for the night. Hawk’s apartment was still most likely a no-go, especially since he had yet to contact the police. Jack would have been okay with that except that a large number of the local cops seemed to have been on Zietz’s payroll. If they made contact with the wrong one, they could be in some serious trouble.
Chaska, too, Jack thought. The old-timer had inadvertently gotten himself in the middle of a war. All he had done was help a guy in need. Now, his life was at stake.
Chaska offered his garage to Bull so he could hide his truck. It was a tight fit. Bull’s truck was bigger than its cousin. Still, it fit, which was great. They needed to make it look like there wasn’t anyone else home besides Chaska. They still needed to create an excuse as to why the beater’s back window was missing. In due time, Jack thought, exhausted. He figured that Zietz’s people would eventually ID the man and discover his home address. Cascade wasn’t a big town. It was fairly spread out and not heavily populated. Someone was bound to know where Chaska lived. Jack was too busy being dragged around to notice any traffic cameras, but he figured there had been a few back near the center of town.
The local man owned a piece of property just beyond Cascade’s northern edge, in an unincorporated area. Chaska’s closest neighbors owned a pig farm. Jack would love some homemade bacon right about now. His modest one-story home sat at the rear of a gently sloping, twenty-acre plot. The structure was secluded—hidden from the road by a dense tree line consisting of pines and various thick, bushy growths. On their way up the winding driveway, Jack had noticed that only half of the land had been cleared. The rest was still in Mother Nature’s possession.
It was after ten o’clock when Jack, Bull, Hawk, and Chaska sat down to eat. Unprepared for company, all the local had was a variety of questionable leftovers and cheap scotch. Jack was more tired than hungry. He had a piece of cardboard crust pizza and a large pour of scotch. The latter would help numb his body as well as his mind.
After their meal, the foursome sat around the fireplace and observed its dance. No one spoke. They did nothing except sit and enjoy the quiet.
But they needed answers.
“So, Chaska,” Jack said, clearing his throat, “what do you know about the Seven Sisters?”
Chaska’s answer wasn’t anything that Jack didn’t already know. He told them the story of seven sisters playing in the woods before being chased by a demon bear.
“Is there anything else?” Jack asked, frustrated.
Hawk spoke up. “Any reason someone would talk about the Seven Sisters along with some sort of treasure?”
Chaska’s heavy, scotch-laced eyelids opened. Something Hawk had said had sparked something within the man.
“When I was a boy,” he started, “long before any of you were born, my grandfather told me of a story—a fun story.”
Jack and Hawk leaned in. Bull sat as rigid as usual, but his attention was glued to the elder.
“A story?” Jack asked.
“A fun one?” Hawk glanced at him. Jack shrugged.
“Yes,” Chaska replied, “a fun one.” He sipped his scotch, smacked his lips together, and sighed. Then, after a moment, he continued. “One day, he was walking in the woods to the west of Bear Lodge with a friend of his. The two men had known each other for some time—a few years—and had grown close because of their love for the natural world.” Bull leaned forward on his knees. “They talked about each other’s beliefs and the deeper meaning of life. Neither saw the other as different or odd. They were friends, and friends cared for one another, no matter what.”
“Sounds like you two,” Hawk said, pointing at Jack and Bull.
“Yes, I can see that,” Chaska agreed. “You have a bond that is unbreakable.”
This was good and all, but it wasn’t helping. “What does this have to do with your grandfather’s story?”
Chaska glared at Jack. “I’m getting there! You youngsters... You are always too eager to get to the end. The journey is just as important.”
The room went silent again.
Chaska sipped his scotch. Jack followed suit and did the same, wincing when the alcohol found a cut on his lip. Then, it stung again as it burned its way down his throat.
He gave the older man an apologetic nod.
“During their hike,” Chaska continued, “they came across a family of bears. The two men froze in place. They had refused to take the life of an animal that was merely trying to protect its family.”
The story sounded like the time when Jack and Bull came across a mama bear and her two cubs. They had reacted the same way. Neither man wanted to harm the beast.
“What did they do?” Hawk asked, fully absorbed into the tale.
Chaska smiled. “They ran like screaming children.”
Jack still had no idea what this story had to do with the Seven Sisters or a treasure, but it was nice just to sit and listen to him tell it. Chaska was a pleasant fellow.
“They came to an impasse and were given a choice. Either they jumped, or they turned and fought.” He got serious. “My grandfather’s friend had pined for his rifle. ‘No,’ my grandfather said, ‘we will not harm a bear while we stand on this sacred land.’”
“What did they do?” Hawk asked.
&nbs
p; Chaska smiled again. “They jumped—and were instantly absorbed by the earth. They traveled through a gateway into the underworld and were greeted by the souls of the Seven Sisters. My grandfather couldn’t explain their beauty to me. He never could find the words.”
Jack was lost. “Wait, so they escaped a bear by jumping into a mystical entryway to the underworld?”
Chaska tilted his head, deep in thought. He nodded. “Yes.”
Hawk leaned over to Jack and spoke under his breath. “Didn’t Roosevelt’s letter mention the Seven resting or something?”
But Jack didn’t hear him. He was too flustered. He got up from his chair and paced. “This isn’t helping us at all.”
Hawk sat back. “He did say it was just a story.”
Jack stopped and faced Hawk but didn’t say a word. The young man shrank deeper into his seat. To avoid eye contact, Hawk returned his attention to the fire and locked in on it.
“Yes, a story,” Chaska said, oblivious to Jack’s reaction. “A fun one.” He laughed. “It always made me smile—still does.”
“Why?” Bull asked, speaking for the first time since they sat. “Why does it make you smile?”
“Because,” Chaska’s eyes found the flames, “my grandfather said that the friend he had been talking about was Theodore Roosevelt.” He shook his head. “Imagine that, my grandfather, Mahkah Adams, friends with the President of the United States.” Chaska sighed, blinking heavily. Sleep was inbound. “Such a fun story…”
Jack had no idea what to believe. His impromptu getaway driver, Chaska, a man in the late stages of his life with an admiration for cheap scotch, had just spun some fanciful yarn about his grandfather and President Roosevelt being close friends. Was it possible? Sure, but the part about there being an entrance to a Native American underworld where the souls of the Seven Sisters resided sounded ridiculous.
