Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  “The last time I felt this alive was twenty-five years ago, in a shoot-out, when I was actually closest to death.”

  Thomas enjoyed a private grin before he stifled his cough. Leaning his forehead against the glass, the old policeman watched the growing number of lights rushing by beneath him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  FOLLOWING THE SECOND ROUND OF ANESTHETIC FROM THE VETERINARIAN, six more hours passed before Neil finally awoke. His pains were still intense, but at least they were of the throbbing variety and unlike the bouts of searing pain he had endured before the surgery. Before making a sound, he checked his faculties, remembering where he was and why he was here.

  “I flew an airplane,” Neil whispered, remembering but still unable to believe what he had done. The anesthetic left a sulfury medicinal aftertaste in his mouth and sinuses, not to mention a skull-splitting headache emanating from the gash on his head. He rubbed his eyes, doing his best to clear his vision. When he moved, he no longer felt the clicking of the bone fragments. Instead, there was soreness with each motion.

  After wasting four matches with his impaired movements, he finally managed to light the paraffin lamp beside his bed. Neil slowly eased his legs over the side of the bed, waiting until the dizziness passed. Taking great breaths, he carefully stood, waiting until he felt steady enough to move. Eventually, short step by short step, Neil shuffled through the bedroom and opened the door.

  Despite the slow speed, it was good to be on his feet.

  The two women of the Heinz family, and the veterinarian, were asleep with their heads down on the kitchen table. The door made a slight clicking sound. Only the daughter, Gabi, stirred. She raised her head, her face red and lined from where it had lain on her arm. She stared at Neil for a moment before her mouth creased upward into a smile.

  His head aching from the anesthetic, his side searing from a bullet wound and the subsequent surgery, Neil still managed to feel admiration for this strong farmer from southern Bavaria. Despite his pain, he had noticed the deft way she’d handled the diamond situation yesterday afternoon. And he didn’t even know that she’d held his Colt on the veterinarian while he was asleep.

  Neil stood wavering in the kitchen, with Gabi staring at him and wearing an expression that both scared him and made his heart soar all at the same time. After licking his parched lips, he barely lifted his left arm, acknowledging her. The wooden clock on the shelf showed the time as nearly four and, judging by the enveloping darkness, Neil was lucid enough to deduce it was four in the morning.

  Gabi shook her mother’s arm. Just as Frau Heinz was raising her head, her hair matted straight up one side of her head, Neil felt the room begin to spin. Gabi reached him just as he began to fall. She managed to get one of the chairs underneath him, cushioning most of his fall as he sat there, wheezing and trying to breathe.

  “Damned fool!” Frau Heinz whispered. “What are you doing up?”

  Neil’s head bobbled back and forth as his body shuddered with paroxysms of coughing. When he recovered, he gasped his words. “I felt the urge to stretch my legs.” He frowned. “What’s my pistol doing out here?”

  Frau Heinz held it. “Never you mind.”

  Neil beckoned Gabi close, telling her about the balance of money he’d placed in the checkers box. He told her to pay the veterinarian, who’d just awoken. After the man had been paid, Neil motioned him over, gripping his arm.

  “Thank you for patching me up,” Neil grunted. “I do appreciate it.”

  The veterinarian was counting the stack of bills for the second time. “My pleasure,” he said without a thread of genuineness.

  Neil summoned surprising strength, pulling the vet closer. “Don’t tell a soul I’m here. Wash me from your mind.”

  The veterinarian tried to pull his arm away but Neil held it firm, the tension causing the joined hands to begin to quiver. After a long moment, Neil released the arm and watched as the vet rubbed it with his hand. Neil saw the fear in the man’s eyes, but also saw something else he didn’t like. It was a type of shrewdness. Neil raised his index finger, staring at the man.

  “Not a soul.”

  After the veterinarian had taken his leave, Gabi and Frau Heinz led Neil back to bed.

  As sleep began to wash over Neil, he reminded himself that he had 32 days remaining. If he didn’t find them, those women and children were going to come out of hiding.

  And die.

  It was sufficient reason to focus on his own healing.

  ~~~

  Three Days Later

  After helping his precinct close another case involving a murder-suicide, Detective Sal Kalakis finally was able to turn his full attention back to the Neil Reuter investigation. Following the beating he took at the hands of the two goons at Hillside, Sal had closed every single angle he’d found on Reuter. He was now back to the tip from the Musselwhite fellow—tracking down Reuter’s military pals.

  As Musselwhite had thought, the housekeeper had indeed kept records. Right away, three names stuck out to him – these had to be the guys Musselwhite was talking about. Good old Agnes had penned “Army” right by their names on her approved callers list, each word made pretty in her flowing Palmer script.

  The first two names were too plain and common to do much with. “Harold Baker” and “Michael Smith” probably numbered in the hundreds—even locally—so Sal didn’t bother scouring the directories. Canvassing had never been Sal’s long suit. Besides, he didn’t have to waste time with the two plain names because the third one was far more unique: Cleveland Mixton.

  Sal was alone in the Ford coupe, so he sang the words, “Here I come, Cleveland Mixton.”

  Only minutes before, Sal had crossed into Arizona after the long, two-day drive. The windows were down, whipping his cigarette smoke into the hot desert air as he held one hand lazily on the steering wheel while the other dangled out in the wind and sun.

  Flora, the detective bureau’s research assistant, had checked census records and found two Cleveland Mixtons living in the entire United States. One lived in—not too surprisingly—Cleveland, Ohio. He was ninety-five years old and a surviving Union Army private from the Civil War. Sal would’ve loved to have chatted with the man, but somehow he didn’t think he was his guy. The only other Cleveland Mixton lived in Bouse, Arizona. This one was forty-one years of age, part Quechan Indian. He was a United States Army veteran of the Great War and was currently employed as a mine owner/operator.

  Bingo.

  So, Sal had informed Captain Yarborough that he wanted a travel chit, accepting it between a hail of Glaswegian curses so beautifully woven together that Sal had wished he had one of those Popular Mechanics voice recorders to save them for later. He would’ve liked to share the obscene soliloquies with some of his fellow detectives, or perhaps a few of the drill sergeants down in Monterey.

  “You guys think you’re good at curse words?” Sal would ask, his finger hovering over the switch. “Have a listen to this.”

  He chuckled, his mood brighter because he was getting close.

  The tattered Reuter-case notebook was wedged under Sal’s gabardine wool pants leg. He eased off the gas as he pulled into the greater Bouse metro area, half expecting to see an old west gunfight break out at any moment. A few sun-bleached, abandoned buildings loomed. Sal slowed to five miles per hour, creeping through the small town. At least there were no tumbleweeds or saloons with swinging doors.

  Despite its deserted feel, the town did have a gas station, just ahead on the right. Sal wheeled in, his tires ringing a bell inside as he stopped next to the pump. An old man shuffled dutifully out, pumping gas before even asking Sal how much he wanted. Sal stepped from the car and shrugged.

  “Well, fill ‘er up I guess.”

  After the car was topped off, the old man soaked a sponge in a bucket, preparing to clean Sal’s dusty windows.

  “Hey, old timer, you happen to know where I can find Silver Shot Road?”

  The man stra
ightened for a moment, his eyes flicking to the east. “Yep.” He went back to his work and wet the windshield.

  Sal studied the man a moment. His hair was light gray and his skin the deep brown of saddle leather. “You mind telling me where?”

  “Nope.”

  Sal stretched his stocky body, chuckling at the man’s mildly disobliging manner. After crossing the empty fueling lane, Sal retrieved a joyously cold bottle of Coca-Cola, popping the top with the twine-held opener, guzzling nearly half of the bottle in one pull. After three hours with no liquid, and breathing the dry desert air, Sal walked a frenzied circle as the carbonation went to work on his mouth and sinuses. When he recovered, he waited until the man had finished cleaning the windshield before he asked for clarification.

  The old man wiped his hands on the rag. “Why do you want to go down to Silver Shot?”

  “I need to see someone. Police business.”

  “Police?”

  “Yes. I’m from San Francisco.”

  There was no movement in the deep tan lines of the old man’s face. He might have been part American Indian; his dark hair had lost its pigment, but there was no mistaking the sophisticated shape of the old man’s face and nose. He studied Sal a moment before looking to the cooler and then back to the pump. “Be a nickel for the cola and a dollar-five for the gas.”

  Sal handed the man a dollar and a quarter. “Keep it.” He finished his drink and handed the man the bottle. “Why do I get the feeling you’re avoiding my question about Silver Shot Road?”

  “Ain’t avoiding it,” the man said. “It’s just…well, there’s no one there. Not no more.” There was immediate dampness—and pain—in the man’s light brown eyes. Sal saw it as clearly as the azure sky that spread out above them.

  “You alright?”

  The man breathed deeply in through his nose, motioning Sal to follow. He walked to the slightly elevated sidewalk, placing the Coke bottle into a wooden crate and then sitting on a faded glider. There was just enough shade to protect them from the sweltering sun. Sal took a spot on the other glider, feeling oddly relieved to sit down although he had been sitting for the better part of two days straight. The man removed a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket, tapping one out before offering the pack to Sal. Sal took a cigarette, flicking his lighter open and lighting them both. The old man smoked for a moment before finally breaking the silence.

  “Silver Shot Road ain’t nothin’ but a rock path that leads here off’a Seventy-Two. Ain’t even on the map, but my son got it registered with Yuma County so he could have his mine’s address on it instead’a the highway.” He rocked back and forth, waiting.

  “Your son?” Sal asked.

  “That’s who you’re lookin’ for, ain’t it?”

  “Your son is named—”

  “Cleveland O’Reilly Mixton,” the old man said, interrupting Sal.

  “And you knew I was looking for him because he’s the only one who lives on Silver Shot Road?”

  The man pulled on his cigarette, exhaling even lines from his nose. He turned his eyes straight ahead, his chin trembling slightly. “Yes, sir. I guess when you mentioned Silver Shot, that’s what tipped me. But the real reason I knew, especially since you’re police, is…” He took another drag, finally getting the words out, “…is because my son, as good as he was to me and as much as I loved him, was nothin’ more than a cold-blooded killer.”

  The cigarette tumbled from Sal’s mouth, putting a small hole in the crotch of his gabardine suit pants.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The wait was excruciating but Sal couldn’t just up and leave the old-timer. After a tedious, long-winded tale about his son’s death from an aggressive form of cancer, the old man clammed up when a truckload of what looked like wildcatters came through. Sal had seen a number of new wells on his way in. The rowdy men filled their truck with gas and nearly bought old Mr. Mixton out of Coca-Colas and cigarettes. After they had gone, Sal tried to get the old man to continue but he wouldn’t. Each time Sal would ask, the man would shuffle by, busying himself with some mundane task. Finally, at high noon, the old man locked the door of the small station and flipped the hanging sign around to indicate he was closed for lunch. He opened the passenger door to the police Ford and got in.

  “Need a ride?” Sal asked, puzzled.

  “If you want answers, we might as well go down to Cleveland’s house. I need to be back here by one.”

  Sal hadn’t expected further cooperation, but happily pitched his cigarette into the road and cranked his car. They drove eastward, down the gentle grade of Route 72, past the thirteen buildings that constituted Bouse. Mixton seemed to have regained his composure, grousing about the lying, no-good bureaucrats of the U.S. Army.

  According to the old man’s tale, his son, Cleveland, had lived here since ’31. Then, about three years ago the Army announced plans to open a training facility just outside of Bouse. Big news for such a desolate area. Freshly widowed and ready for a change of pace, the elder Mixton sank his life savings in the purchase of the shuttered gas station. The old man thought he could live out his golden years near his son while making an easy living off the needs of the U.S. Army.

  “So, after I done all that, the Army changed their plans…didn’t even notify anyone here…decided to develop their outpost down in Cochise County instead. Somethin’ about not messin’ up the oil boom. By the time I heard, I’d been in business six months.” The old man’s leathery hand gripped the frame of the passenger door. “Soon after that, Cleveland got sick. Died fast.” The old man shook his head as his tone deepened. “And there ain’t no oil around here, ‘cept for a few drops. Just me and the snakes…all of us dying our slow death.”

  “Snakes?” Sal shot back.

  The old man shrugged.

  “Sounds tough,” Sal replied, not knowing what else to say.

  “Yeah, well…none of us is promised a good ending.”

  Sal agreed, though he kept it to himself.

  Silver Shot Road was just as the old man had described it. As the Ford bumped and scraped down the steep rutted path, Sal wondered if he would ever make it back out. If a highly unlikely rain shower were to emerge, the SFPD car would definitely be stuck until further notice. Wouldn’t the captain love taking that call?

  “Hey, Cap…I might be here in Arizona a day or two longer than expected. Why? Well, your detective’s coupe is stuck in the desert mud, down by a silver mine.”

  To hear Cappy’s resulting symphony of curses would make the ass chewing almost worth it.

  Silver Shot Road was about a half-mile long, cut into the side of a steep canyon, running a ridge downward, presumably to the mine. The only sign of life were a few utility poles joined by a single cable that roughly followed the road. After they passed around a sharp left turn, Sal could see the small house, if that’s what a person wanted to call it. It had four walls and a slanted roof, set there in a dull orange valley, surrounded by rocks and cacti and nothingness. The house’s frame was wooden, while the walls and roof consisted of corrugated sheet metal. There were two window openings but no glass.

  “That looks like a nice respite from the heat, especially with the metal roof,” Sal quipped.

  “Cleve wasn’t much into possessions.”

  The road leveled as they neared the house. Numerous hand-painted signs warned against trespassing. Staring at the structure, Sal spoke to the old man. “You could just wait in the car if you like.”

  The old man stepped out, tilting his face skyward as if drawing energy from the sun. “Nah, I kinda like comin’ down here. I’m seventy-eight years old. If I ain’t learned to face death yet, I never will.”

  Sal exited the car and followed the old man to the porch, which was nothing more than springy plywood sheets tethered over cinderblock. Then, startlingly fast, a long brown snake emerged from the front window, slithering downward before speeding sideways, off in the direction of the mine.

  “Sonofabitch!” Sal
yelled, jumping off the porch.

  “Just a coachwhip. He’s a good one, too, clearin’ out the rodents for us.”

  Sal had no use for snakes. None. “I don’t mind rodents one frigging bit. But I do mind snakes.”

  He held his hand over his heart, trying to calm himself. After a few more seconds, and seeing no other snakes, he eased his way over the porch and inside.

  The house was roughly twenty feet square. There was a cheap table with three chairs—only one of which looked used, primarily because the seat was brown with dirt and oil. There were two cabinets over a sturdy piece of flat wood and, in the corner of the room, a steel bed with a thin mattress. Otherwise, the only other items in the house were books, hundreds of them.

  The books were stacked floor to rusty metal ceiling, perilously leaning to the left or the right. Sal picked one up, a red hardcover titled Burma. The pages were well worn, with twenty or so turned down at the corner, each page containing numerous underlined passages. He knocked over another stack by removing one from the middle. The book was Working With High-Explosives and, like the other, it was marked throughout.

  “Guess Cleveland liked to read,” Sal said, placing his hat on the table as he mopped his head.

  “This ain’t what you came to see,” the old man said. It wasn’t a question. “Slide that bed out.”

  Sal was still uneasy about more snakes, but grasped the bed and cautiously pulled it out.

  “All the way.”

  After sliding the bed nearly across the room, Sal looked at the old man.

  The elder Mixton moved into the space where the bed had been. He knelt down, pulling out several loose wall screws by hand. That released a warped piece of the wall’s sheet metal, which Sal quickly realized was a false front. Behind the sheet metal was a floor hasp held by an enormous, ancient padlock. The man produced his keys and unlocked it.

  “The door’s heavy. Do you mind?”