Tears wet her pillow as she lay there, terrified of being totally left alone again.
Chapter 13
The moon had just risen, revealing a beautiful crisp night in northern Wisconsin. Deep breaths of this cool air would clear anyone’s mind and make them happy to be alive. However, the beautiful evening was lost on Bo Lopez. He just wanted a room, a bath and a strong shot of bourbon. The shitty tornado and the events that followed put him in a crappy mood.
On his way to Tomahawk, he stopped at a drug store and printed the pictures from the memory stick on the camera he had taken from Harris’s car. He placed a picture of Harris and one of his girlfriend in his shirt pocket.
After looking for what seemed like an hour, he finally located a Motel 6 on the outskirts of Tomahawk. He pulled into the parking lot and walked into the reception area. He was greeted by a chubby woman in her fifties. She had short black hair, which apparently came from a bottle. The woman wore reading glasses halfway down her ample nose. Her lips were drawn tight in a forced grin. Her name tag read, Gladys Ashton. Bo thought, I’m glad as hell that I’m not Mr. Ashton. Fortunately he was the only customer at the desk. The woman looked at him curiously. Bo looked like shit. His clothes were torn, grimy, and bloody. His face looked like he had been in the wilderness for weeks without a bath. He explained to Gladys that he was doing some construction work in the area and needed a room for the night. She appeared reluctant, but took his cash, checked him in and gave him his room key card.
“There’re soap and hot water in the bath,” she sneered sarcastically. Bo just ignored her and proceeded to the room.
The room was simple but clean and had the necessities. Bo unpacked his shaving kit and a change of clothes. He ran a hot steaming shower and washed away the events of the day. He donned his shorts and a t-shirt, went to the bed, and sat down. Bo prepared a bourbon and water and gulped it while he searched the end table drawers for a phone book. When he located it, he looked up Papa John’s pizza, called and placed an order for a large sausage and onion pizza.
Bo turned on the TV, made another drink, and settled in to watch the late local news. The news was dominated by the tornados. A record twenty-seven twisters had touched down in Wisconsin that day. The first one struck Lookout Mountain. The knock-out-blonde anchor woman also reported that one female body was found. The body had not yet been identified. She reported that no other bodies or injured people were found in the Lookout Mountain area.
Oh shit! Bo thought. Now he had three problems. Cherokee was missing and the witness was missing and Veronika’s body was found. The only people who could connect him to the body were Cherokee and the guy, Ben Harris. He had to make sure that both Cherokee and Harris were dead. If they had survived, Bo needed to kill them.
The hot pizza arrived; Bo paid and tipped the delivery girl five bucks. She gave him a flirtatious smile, but he just grunted and closed the door in her face. He shoved about half the pizza down his throat in fifteen minutes. He threw the rest in the waste can, finished his drink, turned off the TV and went to sleep.
Bo awoke the next morning to the ring tone of “Over the Rainbow” on his cell phone. Only a few people had the number, Cherokee, Elezar Fernandez, his contact with the Salazar cartel, and some family members. The shit had hit the fan. He answered the phone with a quiet hello.
“What in the hell happened?” an excited Fernandez yelled into the phone “We paid you for a professional job. The body was never supposed to be found!”
Bo let a moment pass before he answered, “It was beyond my damn control. A tornado touched down while we were taking her out. How did you know about this so soon?”
“You know we have an insider in the Ivanova organization. The police called the family late last night informing them that Veronika’s body had been found on Lookout Mountain after a tornado hit the area. The tornado didn’t kill her. It was a bullet in the head from a Colt .45. If this murder is connected to you and leads to us, then you are a dead man. Is that clear, you bastard?”
“That’ll never happen,” Bo replied in a steely voice.
“You better clean this up quick, Lopez!” Fernandez hissed and hung up.
Bo shut his phone and laid it back on the end table. He hopped out of bed and dressed. He had a mess to clean up.
He didn’t know what in the hell had happened to Cherokee and Ben Harris, so he decided to hang around the Tomahawk area for another day to see if any news of them surfaced. If that didn’t prove successful, he knew where to find Ben and his girlfriend in Green Bay.
Bo went to the front desk, checked out, and drove into the town of Tomahawk to get some breakfast. In front of the Best Western motel on Highway 51 was a Denny’s restaurant. A Grand Slam breakfast would taste excellent, so he pulled into the parking lot and went into the restaurant. A slim brown-haired girl waited on him. She had a cute ass and smiled broadly when she approached his table carrying a pot of coffee. He ignored the smile and ordered his breakfast and coffee. She immediately poured him a hot steaming cup. While he was sipping his hot coffee, he glanced out the window toward the motel. He saw a woman with a very familiar face coming out of her motel room. She was walking toward the restaurant. She came in and was seated two tables away from where Bo was sitting.
He grabbed the picture from his front pocket. I’ll be a lucky son of a bitch. It’s her.
He knew that sooner or later she would lead him to Ben, so he decided to follow her. When he located Harris, he could solve his primary problem.
A deliberate smile came on his face as he ate his eggs and pancakes. The smile looked more like a snarl. Bo Lopez was on the prowl.
Chapter 14
I felt the impact as the rattler’s head, fangs bared, struck my jeans. I instinctively jumped back, but felt the sting of his fangs entering my skin. As I slowly moved backwards toward my home base, it withdrew its head, but remained in a striking position. The undigested rat was still about half-way down the snake’s throat. I eased myself to a sitting position and grabbed the switchblade from my inventory stash. If the rattler came toward me, I had to be ready. However, when it realized it was not in eminent danger, it lay down to finish digesting its meal.
I felt even more foolish for my actions when I realized that the whooshing sound of the helicopter blades had diminished, in the distance. Snake-bit, cold and alone, the time had come to assess the damage. I pulled up my jeans on my left leg. Just above the ankle were the two puncture wounds. The jeans and my jump backwards had protected me from the full bite, but the venom was still going to enter my blood stream. I picked up the cigarette lighter that I had confiscated from Cherokee and held it under the knife to sterilize it. The blade was still hot when I made the cuts across each wound. I laid down the knife and alternately squeezed the puncture wounds to try to extract as much of the venom as possible. My leg was bleeding profusely from both cuts. I grabbed the first aid kit and saturated a piece of gauze with alcohol and placed it on the wounds. I hoped that I extracted enough of the venom so the bite wouldn’t kill me.
The scent of blood must have excited the wolf because he began growling. I glanced over and he was attempting to get to his feet. He crumpled to the ground again as the pain of his broken leg kept him from charging me.
I ripped off another small piece of gauze and saturated it with the hand sanitizer as my alcohol bottle was getting low. I taped the gauze to the wound and wrapped the tape around my leg. I had to stay calm and keep the bite area below my heart. I must try to remain immobile, as it would take about thirty minutes for the venom to localize at the site and not travel to the rest of my body. I cut two small strips of cloth from my shirttail and tied one about two inches above the bite and one about two inches below the bite. The purpose of the bands was to restrict lymphatic flow, not blood, so I didn’t tie them too tight. I would have to adjust them as the swelling started.
I now had bandages on both extremes, the head, and the lower leg. If Leah could see me now, she would be scare
d out of her mind.
During all the excitement, I had forgotten about the helicopter. It didn’t matter much since the sound of the blades cutting the air was gone.
I took four swallows of my precious water and shut my eyes. Now was the time to find out how tough I am, mentally and physically. I decided that I needed to eat something. I opened a can of Vienna sausage, took one sausage, wrapped it in a piece of bread, and added one packet of the mustard. I used the foil to cover the can. I ate slowly and chewed until all the flavor was dissolved. Almost immediately upon finishing my little sandwich, I felt a rumbling in my stomach. The combination of the snake bite and my head wound nauseated me. The acidic taste of vomit filled my throat. I managed to crawl a few feet from my home base and threw up. There wasn’t much in my stomach, so when the food was all out, I had the dry heaves for about ten minutes. I was finally able to recuperate and crawl back to my place. The stench of vomit filled the air.
I glanced at the area below the hole and the snake was gone. It had slithered back to its hiding place. I made a pillow of my towel again and laid my head back, totally drained. I fell into a fevered sleep.
I don’t know how long I slept, but I was awakened by squeaking noises. I looked to the source of the sound and saw three rats eating the vomit. My stomach rolled again, but there was nothing in there to come up. I threw a rock at the rats, and they scattered.
I laid my head back on the pillow and passed out.
I opened my eyes as thunder pounded the sky. Rain poured through the hole twenty feet above me. The drops bounced on the floor of the cave. It was just rain, but it lifted my spirits. I crawled closer to the hole and let the soothing rain drops wash my face and hair. The small puddle of water was growing. I cupped my hands, dipped them in the puddle and brought the life-giving water to my lips. I repeated the action many times until I was full. Maybe God does care if I live or die. I frantically looked around to find something to catch as much of the rain as possible, but all I had was the empty sardine can. I just hoped that the puddle would grow large enough to sustain me.
I crawled back to my home area filled with new hope of survival. Now there were two rocks in the space that I had cleared out to keep count of my days. I was extremely hungry, so I finished the can of Vienna sausages with the remainder of the crackers. The meal stayed down this time. I checked what was left of my food. All that remained was one bottle of water, one can of Vienna sausage, an apple, two slices of bread, and one packet of mustard. I didn’t think I could make that last even two more days. Other than the helicopter hovering above earlier, there was no sign of anyone looking for me.
I had almost forgotten about the half-dead man lying at the former entrance to the cave, so I decided to check on him again to see if he was still alive. The rain soaked his clothing and a small puddle of water was under his face. I crawled to him and checked his pulse. He was barely alive. His lips moved slightly trying to drink from the puddle of water under his face. I lifted his head. His right eye was closed and the grotesque left eye still stared blankly as it hung from its socket.
I heard movement to my right and jerked my head around in time to see the wolf crawling toward me. His hunger was overcoming his pain. I threw a rock at him, but he kept coming. I moved back ten feet to my safe area and again brandished the knife. When he arrived at the puddle of water, he began to drink. Strings of slobber ran down his jaws as he lapped up the muddy water. After getting his fill, he began sniffing Cherokee’s body. Then he bit the unconscious man’s exposed left arm, attempting to rip off the flesh.
I yelled and started throwing rocks at the wolf. The first rock hit his head, and he lifted it from Cherokee’s mangled arm. I picked up a fist-sized rock and threw it as hard as I could. It connected with his broken leg. The wolf let out a loud yelp and crawled backward to his place ten feet from Cherokee’s body. He lay there licking his broken, bleeding leg. It was just a matter of time before his hunger caused him to go for human flesh again. I’m sure that he didn’t care whether it was my flesh or Cherokee’s; he needed to satisfy his hunger.
Night was falling on my second day in the cave. The cool night air made me shiver. I could see the full moon above the hole. It provided enough light for me to watch the wolf without using what was left of the batteries in my flashlight. There would be no sleep tonight. The wolf is hungry and Lord knows where the snake is!
Chapter 15
Law enforcement in the United States has determined that there is a clear relationship between Russian Organized Crime (Russian Mafia) and groups of La Cosa Nostra, the Italian criminal network. Cooperative efforts between these two groups are centered in Miami, Chicago and Houston. The Russian Mafia is considered by the FBI as very brutal, but they are also very sophisticated. They are computer literate and blood-thirsty businessmen.
Miami presents a gateway to both the USA and Latin America, and Houston is the gateway from the USA to Mexico. Chicago provided a central management location coordinating the two. The politicians in Chicago are more open to bribes than the other two cities. Major drug transactions have taken place over the past fifteen years. The FBI has determined that as many as twenty-seven Russian Mafia groups are operating in the United States. The actives of these groups, with the cooperation on certain occasions with La Cosa Nostra, are centered around major cities such as San Francisco, Los Angles, Miami, Chicago, New York, and Houston.
The Russian Mafia is involved in money laundering, illegal money transactions, and narcotics trafficking. Human trafficking and other related illegal activities are other sources of income for them. One of the most prominent Russian Mafia Families in the United States is commanded by Sergey Ivanova.
Sergey Ivanova came to America to work at the docks in Houston. He swiftly rose in the ranks of the longshoreman’s union. He was cunning and ruthless and at six-feet-five, with blond hair and blue eyes, he was a very handsome man. He smiled frequently, which was disarming, especially to his enemies.
After ten years of destroying his competition in any way possible, he became the president of the local unit of the International Longshoremen’s Union. He used this position to recruit other like-minded Russian immigrants. After amassing forty recruits, he quit the union and formed his Russian Mafia family. His connections with the dock workers proved profitable and drug smuggling grew into a very lucrative business for him.
Allisa didn’t know or care where Sergey earned his money. She just enjoyed the elegant lifestyle he provided. She passed on to Veronika her love of the arts and music, and taught her daughter all the social skills that were needed to be held in high esteem in the world of the affluent. Veronika was a debutante and her coming-out party at age sixteen was the talk of Chicago. Sergey hired the most popular rock band in the country to perform. Nothing was too good for his Veronika.
After graduating from the exclusive Harrison’s School for the Art’s, Veronika enrolled at the University of Wisconsin as an art student. Sergey made a $600,000 donation to the University to help secure his daughter’s position with the professors and administration on campus. He purchased a large vacation home in Milwaukee so Veronika would only be a short plane ride away from home.
It was common knowledge among Sergey’s associates that Veronika was “off limits” for any of Sergey’s criminal activities. However, Veronika was a very intelligent girl. She never let on to her father that she was well aware of how he made his fortune. Actually, she was proud to be the daughter of such a tough, rich, and feared man.
Sergey’s world crumbled when Veronika’s mangled body was recovered on Lookout Mountain. The cause of death—a gunshot wound to the head. Consumed with uncontrolled rage and sorrow, only one thought occupied his mind. Find out who killed Veronika and why, and then watch the killer die a long and painful death. He wanted everyone who had anything to do with his daughter’s death to be punished his way, the Sergey Inanova way. No mere prison term or court-ordered execution was enough. Only slow death by torture would quench his
appetite for revenge.
After laying his daughter to rest in an elegant and somber funeral, he called his most trusted assassin to his home.
Afanasir Petrov was a vicious, short, stocky man with a shaved head and enormous hands and feet. His face was scared by two jagged knife cuts, one across the cheek and one under his chin. He had clear blue eyes that showed no emotion. Living up to his name Afanasir (meaning immortal in Russian), the word among the Russian Mafia families was that he could not be killed, although many tried and were destroyed in the process. Petrov had no conscience and could kill efficiently or with unhurried agony for the victims. He took his pleasure from prostitutes, vodka and cocaine. He was loyal to no one except Sergey, who had smuggled him into the states from Russia and provided him with at least four fake identities. Sergey’s instructions to him were simple, find out who murdered his daughter before the police did. Bring the killer or killers to him alive.
“Don’t return without bringing me someone to mutilate,” were his last words to Petrov.
Petrov accepted a thick envelope filled with cash for his expenses and left Sergey’s home. He traveled to his condo to prepare for the trip. His destination was Green Bay and then to drive to Lookout Mountain and the nearest town, Tomahawk, to find information about the murder of Veronika.
He would not fail. Petrov never failed.
Sergey also called Marino Bastone, his La Cosa Nostra contact, to tell him that he was offering a $1,000,000 bounty on the head of his daughter’s killer. The bounty was payable in cash to the man who brought him the killer alive. He didn’t inform Bastone or Petrov that he was sending both on the same mission. If they crossed paths and a showdown occurred, Petrov would, without a doubt, be the last man standing in that duel.
The Spirit Survives Page 5
