KILLER IN BLACK a gripping action-packed thriller (Johnny Silver Thriller Book 2)

by PAUL BENNETT

  Not a nice thought. Sounded like the only route for her would have been downhill, and all the way, too.

  ‘And Cameron?’ Red asked.

  ‘Similar sort of story, except this time her father, the Cheyenne side of her make-up, was a drunk. Used to slap her around. One day he tried to get into bed with her. She beat him off and told her mother. Mother wasn’t able to stand on her own two feet and needed a man – any man, even a bad one would do. Said she didn’t believe Cameron – that she was just trying to get attention. Cameron had no option but to run away or face a life of abuse. She was heading for Mexico, for some strange reason – sounded glamorous, I suspect. She hitched a ride and the driver was a local man and told her about the Retreat. He offered to take her there. Cameron thought she had nothing to lose. She liked what she saw – free and easy lifestyle – and stayed. Another one missing a father figure and male role model. It’s going to be tricky for us – especially Red and Johnny – to act properly, but not to get too involved. They’re likely to hang on to whichever of us, in their eyes, fills in that missing element, fills the void that they both have.’

  ‘What about Fey?’ asked Red.

  ‘Been a long time since I saw someone as beautiful as her,’ Bull said.

  ‘Don’t let Anna know you said that,’ I warned. ‘I’d have to defend her and it’s not good to have fighting in the ranks.’

  I nodded. ‘And what’s Fey’s story?’

  ‘She’s just a free spirit. Pretty much a flashback to the sixties – love and peace, goodwill to all men and all that jazz.’

  ‘No harm in that,’ Red said. ‘World would be a better place if more people felt that way.’

  ‘She’s an innocent,’ Bull said. ‘Can’t see the evil around or the bad side of people. In her way she’s as vulnerable as Lucy and Cameron. She’s loaded, too. Lots of people would like to take advantage of that.’

  ‘Where’s her money come from?’ I asked.

  ‘Inheritance,’ Pieter said. ‘Grandmother was a cute businesswoman with good advisors. Saw the dotcom boom, made some shrewd investments, cashed in at the right time. Heart attack got her. Fey came into the money when she was eighteen. Got involved with a bunch of musicians, took off from restrictive parents, did the festival circuit, met Rafael at one of them – good recruiting opportunity for the Retreat – and liked his ideas.’

  ‘How much has she given to Rafael?’

  ‘Nothing. He doesn’t need it. If he does, then Fey will bankroll Rafael and the community. But they don’t need it. You’ve seen the simple way they live. Self-sufficient – don’t want for anything.’

  ‘Anything else we should know?’ I said.

  ‘No, that just about covers it.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll phone Stan.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘To see if he can organize some sandwiches. I’m starving.’

  Bull and Red nodded their agreement.

  ‘I could even eat one of his beloved dill pickles,’ Bull said.

  ‘Then all’s well that ends well,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s hope,’ said Red. ‘Let’s hope.’

  Bull had woken me for my shift at two o’clock. I made a mug of strong coffee and took it out to the porch. I placed the Uzi on the floor on my right side, the Browning in my lap and cradled the mug between both hands. I looked slowly around and saw nothing moving. If anyone came, I was ready for him.

  The bunkhouse door opened and out came Jesse.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  I gestured to the chair on my left.

  ‘Do you mind if I talk?’ he said.

  He was nervous. Knew that there was a fight brewing and wondered how he would react. That’s what everyone thinks. You train and practise, over and over again, but it’s only when the battle starts that you find out what you’re going to do.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said. ‘It’ll help pass the time.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

  ‘A little island paradise in the Caribbean called St Jude. Got a wife and soon I’ll have a child, too. Run a bar there. Doesn’t get much better than that. What about you?’

  ‘No wife, no kids. Just kind of drifted around from place to place. Never put any roots down. That’s fine when you’re young,’ he shook his head, ‘but gets kinda lonely at my age.’

  ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘Same as most ranch hands. Put a little stash together and buy a farm of my own. Nothing fancy, but big enough to keep a few pigs and chickens, grow some corn. Get the fruits of my labour rather than working for someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I like working here. Red’s a good boss. Trusts you to do your job, not on your back all the time like some bosses. But it’s not the same as having your own place.’

  I nodded. Guessed it was a familiar story. Ranch hands, I suspected, couldn’t help blow their wages on gambling, booze or nights at the local whorehouse. Always falling short of that bankroll.

  ‘I guess what I’m saying,’ Jesse said, ‘is that I’d like to help. Got nothing to lose. Would make me feel like I done something worthwhile with my life. It ain’t right what someone’s doing to Red.’

  ‘Can you shoot?’ I asked.

  ‘Never tried, but it don’t look that difficult.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Shooting’s easy; it’s hitting the target that’s difficult. Most of the time you only get one shot and you have to make that count or you’re dead.’

  ‘You could teach me,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll start in the morning,’ I said. ‘Now get some sleep. You never know what tomorrow will bring.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We sat around the table drinking coffee and staring at Stan’s pictograms on the map he had drawn.

  ‘We have to assume,’ Stan said, ‘that they will approach by the main track from the road. There’s no reason why they should do anything else, and if they are true bikers they won’t want to damage their tyres or suspension by going cross-country. That’s what we will be doing.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘so the track will be our first line of defence?’

  ‘We construct barriers along the side of the track,’ Stan said, pointing to two lines on the map, ‘so that they act as a funnel. Then we dig a big pit, cover it with tarpaulin and disguise it with earth so that it blends in.’

  ‘I can see that the first few lines of bikes will drop into the pit,’ I said, ‘but the rest will soon wise up. What’s your plans for them?’

  ‘Stingers,’ Sam said. ‘We put rolls of barbed wire across the track after the pit. Their tyres will puncture and then they’ll be on foot – those who haven’t given up by then, that is. We should be able to cut down their numbers – they are reckoning to outnumber us ten to one and have an easy time. Each time they meet a trap they will get demoralized.’

  ‘And a demoralized army is a beaten army,’ Bull said. ‘I’m liking this.’

  ‘It means that we will have to take a detour when we leave or enter the ranch,’ Stan said, ‘but our jeeps and trucks can handle that easily. Anyone got any other ideas?’

  ‘I’d like to have an added exit through the Alamo’s land,’ I said. ‘Nothing major: just replace one length of fence with a simple bar-and-pole fence. Something we can easily dismantle and ride or drive through.’

  ‘Or enable them to get here if they face any problems,’ Red said. ‘So far they haven’t had any trouble, but I’d feel happier if they had somewhere to run. We don’t have the manpower to guard their land, too.’

  ‘What about adding some trip wires?’ Pieter said. ‘Thin wire at waist level for the bikers. That should whittle them down further.’

  Stan nodded. ‘Here would be the best place,’ he said, stabbing at the map. ‘Maybe fifty yards back from the stingers so that they get the feeling that they have got over the obstacles and have a clear run from there.’

  ‘Oil might work, too,’ Red said. ‘More tarpaulin, this ti
me covered with oil. After that, place something hard for them to skid into.’

  ‘Looks like we’ve got a plan,’ Bull said. ‘When we start digging the pit and making all the other traps, we’ll need a guard on the road to stop anyone sneaking a look at what we’re doing. Can you add that to your rota, Stan, of what our duties are at various times of the day?’

  ‘It means we are another person committed,’ he replied. ‘It will mean longer shifts on the foothills of the mountain and everywhere else we stand guard. We are starting to stretch ourselves a bit thin.’

  ‘We can draft in Jesse,’ I said. ‘He’s keen to help.’

  ‘Okay,’ Stan said. ‘I’ll work it out later. The first priority is getting all the gear that we need.’

  ‘Do a list. I promised Jesse some shooting practice – he could go into town after we finish that. Pick himself up a gun while he’s there. I’m not suggesting he should get involved in the heat of the battle, but just for his own protection. We’ll use him as one of the lookouts. Once he’s spotted any action he gets back here to the ranch house and we take over.’ I took one last look at the map and fixed the plan in my mind. ‘OK, guys, let’s have action. I’ll spend an hour with Jesse and then we’ll go to see the Blenkensteins, Red.’

  Pieter picked up the sniper rifle and a bottle of water and headed off to the foothills, with Bull driving him there. Stan started to make his list. As I was about to walk out of the room Bull held up his hand to stop me.

  ‘Johnny,’ he said. ‘Is this going to work?’

  ‘I can’t think of anything better,’ I answered.

  ‘Somehow I hoped that would sound more reassuring,’ he said.

  ‘Me too,’ I replied.

  Jesse and I were lying prone on the grass behind a large rock that was the most forward of our firing positions. He had my gun in his right hand and had extended it as if to shoot. We’d set up a bale of hay about fifty yards away and marked it in blue paint with a silhouette of a standing man.

  ‘Can I start shooting?’ he asked enthusiastically.

  ‘Not yet. Let’s start with some basics. There are three things you need to remember about handling a gun. The first is to squeeze the trigger. If you just pull it or yank at it, then the gun jerks and you will miss the target.’

  Jesse nodded, and I continued: ‘The second thing is that your hand is liable to shake, especially if you are a beginner, so you need to find something to rest the gun on. This rock will do for our purposes.’

  He nodded again. Must have all sounded easy at this stage.

  ‘What’s the third thing?’ he asked.

  ‘The third thing is that the first two points should be irrelevant. Your job is simply to fire one shot and get the hell out of here. The sound of the shot will alert us and we’ll take up our pre-rehearsed firing positions. You just concentrate on getting back to the ranch house as quickly as your legs will carry you. Oh, and run zigzag fashion so you’re less of a target.’

  ‘I think I can handle that,’ he said. ‘Now can I start shooting?’

  ‘Not yet. You need to release the safety catch.’ I showed him where it was and he looked at me eagerly. ‘Now you can start shooting.’

  He rested the barrel of the gun on top of the rock and squeezed the trigger as commanded. The bale of hay just sat there.

  ‘This is trickier than it looks,’ he said.

  ‘The cowboy films make it look too easy. Think of the gun as an extension of your right arm. Run your middle finger along the barrel if that helps.’

  He took up a new stance. Fired again. Clipped the top right hand corner of the bale.

  ‘You’ve just shot your assailant in the left shoulder. Aim slightly down and to your left.’

  ‘That will take it too low. Shouldn’t I be aiming at his head?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone killed unnecessarily. Shoot him in the stomach and he will go down and the fight will go out of him. You can forget about him then. Shoot him in the heart and you’ll never be able to forget about it. It’ll haunt you all your days. You’ll never be the same man again. Plus, if you kill him, it’s going to take a lot of good answers to get us off a murder charge. Sheriff Tucker would love that.’

  ‘You’ve killed, haven’t you, Johnny?’

  ‘Only when there was no other option. If it’s a choice of him or me, then you have to resort to killing him. But I’ve never enjoyed it like some people. Some get a kick from it – it’s the ultimate power, that of life or death. They are the ones you have to watch out for, for they will kill without any warning signs and they don’t have any scruples, like shooting a man in the back. In my book, you have to justify killing or you can’t live with yourself. With this bunch of bikers I intend to give them every opportunity to turn round and ride on. If they want a fight, we’ll be ready and that means ready to kill. I always hope it won’t come to that.’

  ‘How do you tell which ones will kill without hesitation from the ones that don’t pose that much of a threat?’

  ‘You look at their eyes, inside their eyes. That’s where you see it.’

  ‘And you and the others have that look, haven’t you. I’ve seen it. Like that night in town. None of you would pull back. It makes me shiver.’

  ‘If you see that look in anyone’s eyes, get out,’ I said. ‘Now you can shoot again. Imagine that bale of hay is your enemy. The one with the look. You can’t get away, so it’s time for you to shoot. Go ahead.’

  He lined up the gun again and squeezed the trigger twice. Both shots hit as he intended: the bale shifted back from the impact of the two bullets. He smiled at me, pleased with himself.

  ‘And again,’ I said. ‘Three shots this time. Just in case it’s beginner’s luck.’

  He fired off three rounds which all hit the target in the middle. He gave a bigger smile this time and extended his hand to shake mine.

  ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘Now just pray you don’t have to use your new-found skill.’

  The sun was high by the time Red and I set off for the Blenkensteins. The approach to their farm was along a rutted dirt track. There was a post box at the start of the track. No wonder. What postman would want to drive up that track every day. The four-wheel-drive jeep took it in its stride, but it was a bumpy ride and would have done some damage to the suspension of a lesser vehicle.

  To our left, along the border with the Alamo Retreat, we could see people working in the fields, picking corncobs. Ahead, the fields were populated with a few cows, a pigsty big enough for maybe six sows and their offspring, and some kind of crop – wheat, it looked like to my ignorant eyes – that needed harvesting. The ranch house was little bigger than a cabin and needed a coat of paint. In the background we could see the digger that we hoped to borrow. The digger, which looked like it had hardly been used, seemed out of place among the tumbledown nature of the farm.

  As we pulled up, the Blenkensteins came out to meet us. The woman was wearing a long black dress and was wiping her hands on a white apron. She had grey hair done up in a bun and was somewhere in her sixties, and, appropriately, wearing a pair of round granny-glasses. The man was probably a few years older, with thinning grey hair. He wore a pair of black trousers, a grey shirt that once might have been white, and red braces. He walked stiffly as if he had a bad back or arthritis in his lower body. Running a place like this must have added years to their lives: it was too big for an old couple. If it was me, I would have sold up and bought a little retirement home to while away my days.

  ‘Good to see you, Red,’ Mr Blenkenstein said. ‘And you, too, mister.’

  He put an arm around Red and led him inside the cabin.

  He spoke with an accent that sounded, from the lisp that accompanied the words, like Dutch. I wondered how long they had owned the place and whether the accent had softened with the years or if he had stubbornly hung on to it as a reminder of the past.

  Inside, there was a iron stove with a coffee pot on top, an immaculate kitchen with the smell of ba
king pastry, and a combined dining and living area. The dining table probably seated about eight and the living quarters had two large sofas and a rocking chair with a newspaper on the seat. For two people it was adequate; that was about all that one could say about it.

  ‘Coffee?’ Mrs Blenkenstein said, motioning us towards the dining table.

  We nodded our heads and she poured a thick black liquid into two small cups. Which was good – you didn’t want a large mug of this stuff. It had been sat stewing on that stove for far too long and now tasted bitter and burnt.

  ‘A piece of pie?’ she asked, her lined face breaking into a smile. ‘Growing boys like you need building up.’

  Neither of us had the nerve to say no. We wanted that digger and couldn’t afford to get on the wrong side of them.

  She cut two large slices of an apple pie that actually looked and smelt pretty good. I took an experimental bite. It was like a cross between a pie and a strudel, spiced with cloves and dotted with raisins.

  ‘This is good, ma’am,’ I said. ‘I’m Johnny, an old friend of Red. Good to get to meet you.’

  ‘And to make your acquaintance,’ Mrs Blenkenstein said.

  ‘To what do we owe the honour of your visit?’ Mr Blenkenstein asked. ‘Not that it isn’t always good to see you, Red.’

  ‘We’re doing some work at the ranch,’ Red said, glossing over any details that might be useful to an enemy if they ever found out, ‘and were hoping to borrow your digger – just a couple days would do fine, if it wouldn’t be an inconvenience.’

  There was a slight hesitation during which he was no doubt evaluating whether we could be trusted with his pristine digger and what we would think if he refused.

  ‘Where are you going to be digging?’ he asked. ‘The ground gets harder as you near the mountains. Don’t want you wasting your time.’

  ‘Just some work in front of the ranch,’ Red said. ‘Shouldn’t take more than a day or so.’