by L. J. Martin
"I'll be on the rifle in fifteen minutes. On my way."
I begin to ease over to the ravine, then carefully work my way down, stopping every five feet to scan the complex below, watching to see if any eyes are turned my way, but other than the guy on the scoped rifle in the tower. I see no one. And he seems to be snoozing and enjoying the warm sun, now falling low over the mountains to the west.
When I reach a level about where I think I'm only a hundred yards from the center of the complex and maybe seventy five feet above, I see a little berm where a badger has burrowed into the side of the cut and made a spot where I can get some cover, if not from the guy on the tower, from the complex below. A smoke tree up the side of the ravine gives me some visual protection from the tower, but not as much as I'd like.
I hunker down, find a good spot to rest the barrel of my AR 15, and wait.
As the light begins to fade, my confidence grows. I'm lying on my back so I can swivel my head and see up the hill and down and watch the guy on the tower without making too much movement. I look up the hillside and see Pax slip over the crest of the hill and move very slowly to the hidey-hole. Not that I don't trust Skip's shooting, but my confidence grows even more as Pax mans the gun…no one is better, in my experience.
Sand flies are pestering me, but I can't move quickly enough to swat the little bastards without taking the risk of attracting attention…and gunfire. So I just put up with them. Maybe they'll go to bed with the sun.
I can't see the road into the complex from the highway, so I'm not surprised when my phone vibrates. Moving very slowly, I get it to my ear.
It's Pax. "Yeah," I answer with a whisper.
"Two cars coming fast, kicking up lots of dust."
"Roger that, let me start things from down here if they need starting," I hang up.
I check the time, but know it's past seven forty four as the sun has dropped well below the horizon. And I'm right; it's a few minutes past eight.
Both cars slide to a stop, and Jefe and Beltran jump out, both looking around as if they expect to see a platoon of soldiers.
26
Jefe is smiling and laughing as Beltran goes to the trunk and opens it, fishes out a duffle bag, and, also smiling, hands it to Jefe, who opens it, checks the contents visually, and closes it again. He drops it at his feet, does the same when Beltran brings him a second bag, then again with a third. If those are full of hundreds, it amounts to several million bucks. It's all I can do not to whistle, or say "Wow" aloud.
As soon as Jefe checks the third bag, his smile fades, and I can hear him begin to berate Beltran, who looks very surprised. As Jefe yells in Spanish, obviously accusations, Beltran begins to shake his head, harder and harder, and guys begin to filter out from the buildings, each carrying a weapon.
I'm eyeballing them through my binocs. You can see the transition in Beltran as his cobra eye widens and he jerks his head from side to side, then yells something at the top of his lungs, and more guys appear. Now all of them are looking around, panning their heads from side to side, many of them trying to get their backs to the buildings.
What a cluster fuck this is about to be.
I'm hoping they'll start shooting, and am not disappointed as Jefe jerks a weapon from the small of his back, beating Beltran who does the same. But it's Jefe's weapon that discharges first, and Beltran is blown back against his Caddy. He gets off a shot, but it's into the dirt, then falls forward on his face. He jerks a few times, then stills.
All the rest of the guys, almost two dozen of them, are panning weapons back and forth, but not firing.
Jefe walks forward and kicks the hell out of Beltran, a cowboy boot to the head like he's kicking a soccer ball, then stuffs his semi-auto pistol back in his belt. He struts around like the yard rooster, and begins to shout. I make out the word "traidor," and know enough Spanish to know it means traitor.
The good news is they're all still panning their weapons back and forth. The bad is they're not shooting at each other.
I guess they need a little encouragement.
Taking a deep breath, I give the first blast to the guy on the top of the tower. He goes over the rail ass end over teakettle, but I don't have time to watch. Then the rest of the clip is panned across the complex, not giving a damn if it's Jefe's soldiers or Beltran's in the line of fire…and it's all the encouragement needed.
All hell breaks loose as soldiers, most of whom are no more than twenty feet apart, begin emptying clips at each other…screams echo, blood flies, some men hit the ground and some run.
As I'm changing clips, I hear the steady fire of the SASS above, shots no more than a half second apart, thanks to it being a semi-auto.
Someone below has picked up on my location. Gravel begins to fly and ricochets sing while I flatten myself and mimic a pancake.
They're within range of me, but Pax has a real advantage being well above and over four hundred yards away. I know he's eyeballing muzzle flashes and hear his selective firing. When the firing below slows to the occasional pop, and when the gravel stops flying and the ricochets singing overhead, I break up the ravine at a run, stopping only when I have cover.
The good news is it's getting too dark for someone to see without night vision.
It takes me almost twenty minutes to work my way back to the hidey-hole.
I slip in beside Pax, who's grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
"Give me the chopper controller," I say, and he hands it over. I belly over to the Quadcopter and switch it and the GoPro in its belly on, and in moments it's winging its way to the complex.
We have good visual on most of the complex yard, but can't see behind the buildings or inside them. However, two of the buildings are missing roof sections. I buzz the Quadcopter around the perimeter of each building at a height of about seventy-five feet, then move it to the open spots over the garage and storage buildings, then bring it home.
A perfect landing. In moments we have the GoPro disconnected and are watching the video.
Skip, whose job is to keep an eye on the complex, yells, "Hey, two of those assholes are making a break for the Caddy."
"Keep them away from the duffle bags," I shout back. And he begins popping away with the SASS.
"That did it," he says, and then laughs. "They're hotfooting it toward the highway. By the way they're running they probably won't stop until they make the border."
"Let's get the hell out of here," Pax says, and rises.
"Bullshit," I reply. "I'm not leaving without a sack of that dough."
He sounds a little surprised. "Is this about the money?"
"No, it's not about the money. However I'm out two-and-a-half vehicles, we owe the boys in Malta and India, and I want to make damn sure Janson's little girl is taken care of…the cartels and the assholes who buy the dope owe Carol Janson. And you've got some dough in this deal and Skip has some coming."
With that, he shrugs. "So, what next?"
"I see on the video there are two guys behind the storage shed and three hunkered down inside the shop building. The first one is twelve feet to the left of the sliding door. Skip," I say, and he knows what I mean, and puts a shot through the corrugated tin wall. In seconds, the second Caddy roars out of the building, fishtailing, throwing up dust and rocks, and heads for the highway. I can't tell if it's one guy or two in the Caddy, but presume it's both of the remaining guys in that building. Skip is taking a bead on them, but I yell, "Screw them, let them go." He shrugs and lowers the muzzle. Then he asks, "How are we going to get the guys behind the storage building?"
"Aw, the magic of cell phones," I say, and search my numbers until I find the right ones.
"You got their phone number?" he asks, looking surprised.
"I got their number okay. You get ready in case they make a break for it," and an explosion that rocks every building there follows my statement. I've set off the plastic at the front of the storage building.
And it works. The two guys br
eak at a dead run, and they're moving away from the complex as fast as they can go.
"That worked just fine," I say, and then add, "Let's see who else we can kick up."
As fast as I can dial, I set off the other three charges. The last two are running for the highway and barely clear the gate before that charge knocks them both off their feet, but they're up again, and running again, but not nearly so fast.
I stand and stretch, and brush my clothes off. "We better get down there and see what the bags have to offer, then get the hell out of here before the cavalry arrives. The gunshots may not attract the cops, but the explosions might."
We carefully move from building to building, and find four soldiers still breathing/ We leave them to their own devices…better treatment than they give their enemies.
Jefe is face down and I roll him over to see a fist size hole in his chest. It looks like either Pax or one of his own got him.
I smile when I find that Beltran is still breathing, and slap him a couple of times. Foamy blood is coming from his mouth, so he doesn't have long.
But he does open his good eye and his cobra one.
"Hey, asshole," I say, "remember that beautiful blonde in Santa Barbara…the one you decided didn't need her head."
"Fuck you," he manages to whisper, blowing bubbles when he does.
"No, amigo, fuck you," I say, and place a combat boot in the middle his chest and apply my weight. He manages to wheeze a couple of times, then goes quiet and his good eye rolls up in his socket, and the bubbles stop. I wish I had my shotgun so I could blow his fucking head off.
"Rest easy, Carol Janson," I say, then hock a big one and spit in Beltran's ugly mug.
Walking over to where the three duffle bags lie scattered between Jefe's car and Beltran's, I bend to pick one up, and it's good I do as an automatic chatters in the darkness of the shop building and my ass is on fire. I dive behind Jefe's body and go deaf as both Pax and Skip empty clips at the muzzle blast. With ears ringing, I'm trying to determine if my balls are blown away, but soon discover that I've only taken a slug through the left gluteus maximus. And I say only with tongue in cheek, so to speak.
"Fuck," I manage. Gritting my teeth so hard they ache.
"Let's get a compress on it," Pax says, pulling the little first aid kit we all carry from the thigh pocket of his combat pants. "Drop them," he commands.
I do, and he does his field dressing. He can't help but laugh at the wound, but I'm not amused.
"Clean in and out," he says. "Hit an asshole, but missed your asshole by three inches."
"Very funny," I say, then gritting my teeth, return to the duffle bag. I was right; it's full of hundreds.
I throw one to Skip. "Let's get the hell out of here," I say, and start limping toward the ravine.
We're only half way back to the hidey-hole when Skip yells "Company coming!" and I turn to see that a vehicle with flashing red lights has turned off the highway.
"Let's hustle," I say, and grit my teeth again and pick up the pace.
About the time the flashing lights hit the gate to the complex, we're over the crest of the hill and loading up in the Jeep.
When we get to the bottom of the hill on the edge of the ravine where the Vette is hidden, I hand my keys to Skip. "You drive it home. I don't think I can sit." He leaps out and I take up his former position in the rear of the Jeep.
"How you gonna explain this one to that little redhead at the doc in the box?" Pax asks as we drive sans lights heading for the highway.
"I'm not, you're gonna run a swab soaked in peroxide through it and it's gonna heal by itself. Let's see, do I give a rat's ass about a scar on my butt? Stop hitting every friggin' hole in the road," I command, and he laughs again.
Epilogue
The Los Angeles Times reported a gang war near Vidal Junction, where a dozen bodies and several million dollars in cash was discovered. No mention, we were happy to note, of three Marine Corps buddies who took umbrage at a beautiful woman losing her head for absolutely no reason and a child left motherless.
Another fishing trip and we fed Lake Mead a few more firearms.
The bag we skipped the scene with contained four million three hundred and twenty-seven thousand two hundred bucks. I keep an even mil; Skip a mil, and Pax a mil. One million four hundred thousand was put into trust in the Cayman Islands with Pax, Wally, and Crystal Janson acting as trustees for the education and health of little Sherry Zamudio. It's a good thing, because the feds decided they didn't need Raoul's testimony after the uncles left this earth and indicted him under the RICO act. I thought it was a little chicken-shit, but when did the government exclude themselves from that not so exclusive society?
We went to supper on the odd two hundred.
My first order of business on returning to Vegas was visiting Crystal Janson and assuring her that all of Carol's killers had met their maker, and that she had some upcoming responsibilities, and the money to accept them. She cried for an hour. As much as I was attracted to her, I made no play, as she was Sharon Janson reincarnated.
Skip quit his job in Reno and headed for Europe where spending his dough would meet with few questions. He'll be back soon as he can eat his way through a mil with no problem.
I, on the other hand, after my ass healed up, got my pile to the Cayman Islands on a sailboat I rented, a forty four foot Mason, so as not to attract attention by spending too much dough, then brought it back into the country as commissions earned and paid income tax thereon, wanting to remain the solid citizen I try to be.
Detective Andre Bollinger did allow me to buy his supper and even let me eat with him, in fact, I think he was a little bit proud of me, although the subject was not broached—proud at least until the cartel re-established their operations in Vegas, which, until the country weans itself of dope, is as inevitable as the tides.
I never did get another date with Jennifer DiMarco, but after Skip left the country Wally decided to take a leave of absence and act as my first mate on the sail down. I had to do the cooking, and she complained the whole way about doing the dishes, we used paper plates on the sail back home.
It was a nice trip.
Pax met me at the airport with an email from an old buddy, my CO in the Marine Corps. He's now a vice president of an oil well service company in Williston, North Dakota, and they are having a hell of a time with dope dealers in the Bakken oil fields.
Can I come?
You bet your sweet ass I can.
II
The Bakken
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
1
Three of them are standing outside, in the dark, smoking, but it's hard to tell if it's smoke they're exhaling or just hot breath into frigid air. Icicles are already a foot long on the eaves of the building.
Smokers get a little grumpy having to go outside into mustache-freezing air to corrode their lungs and these three don't look happy. Two of them look like Indians; the third one, who's eyeballing me like I'm something stuck to his shoe, is a dirty blonde white-eye with shoulder-length stringy hair and is the largest of the three at an easy two sixty. He's got at least forty pounds on me, although we're about equal height. He's the u
gliest of the trio—dog-butt-ugly comes to mind.
As I approach, I can smell the dirty coveralls, the scarred steel-toed boots covered with scum, the oil-spotted Carhartt jackets they all wear, and an even stronger odor—the cheap weed they're smoking and passing around.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" asks the big ol' boy. He's gripping a half-inch-long hooter with the fingernails of his index finger and thumb. I brush past him and head for the front door. I can see this is going to be a fun place to work, if you enjoy the occasional busted knuckle—or worse.
"Not very fucking much," I say over my shoulder and push through the door without giving him a chance to figure out it was a slam.
I hear him yell after me, "Eat me, asshole."
I've been in town fifteen minutes and am glad I took my new employer's advice—and fat advance—and bought a truck and camper before heading out to America's fast growing boomtown, Williston, North Dakota. Why would a burg in this godforsaken place—it's December 12 and ten degrees outside—be growing so fast? Oil, to be more specific, shale oil, is the reason. Oil is money and jobs, and much of the U.S. is still on its ass. Those who truly want to work will go damn near anywhere, particularly for big money.
Jobs and money! Why else would a place so friggin' cold have grown from a twelve thousand five hundred population to thirty-five thousand in thirteen years?
A dozen years ago, Williston was a small town with half the population hardworking folks of Norwegian descent, mostly in farming or related jobs. Man, has it ever changed.
