The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  "Is there any reason to stay longer?"

  "Nope, there's a damn good reason to get the hell out of here and have a beer."

  "You sure?" I ask.

  "Damn sure. Those boys have unloaded a dozen or more what looks like AR15's. Are these guys planning a war?"

  16

  Dark comes late in Montana summers and it's still light when Hunter and I have finished a couple of beers and a plateful of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and buttered corn. I've reviewed Hunter's notes and, yes, it was a busy day around the ARA compound. Part of that 'busy' was a couple of new vehicles, a Ford pickup with a cover on the back and a brand new Toyota Highlander seating eight, and eight were therein as well as three in the pickup, all men, all looking more like they'd chew nails than bark.

  I'm about to order a piece of pie and compare the Sunshine Station's to the Hamilton café's, when my phone does a few notes of Ring of Fire and I know it's Pax.

  He seldom bothers with hello, and this is no exception. "They're on the move."

  "Both marked cars?"

  "Both, just turned out of the access road and are headed north on Highway 1."

  "I'll get on my horse," I say, and wave the waitress over—Pet I've learned is her name—indicating I want a check.

  "I want to come up," Pax grouses.

  "Hold on." I turn to Hunter who's gnawing his last bite of chicken fried. "You want to keep working?"

  "Why not. I was supposed to take sweet Al to the movie, but her relief didn't show so she's got to close up."

  I turn back to the phone. "I had a few words with the daughter at lunch time, and I don't think I'm going to be able to talk her out of there…so come on up. We also have more ARA types on the scene, who arrived with enough fire-power to start a small insurrection."

  "I'll text you my travel arrangements."

  Hunter has his Jeep but I want to stay on the job with my van, and possibly some of what's hidden in his hide-out panels. I lead the way and swing off through Maxville, trade Harley Iron for Van, and quickly apply some magnetic signs to each side of the van. Now I'm Alliance Plumbing and Sheet Metal. And we're back on the road.

  As I knew he would, Pax continues to text me with the movements of the tracking devices. Both vehicles still together, now having turned west on Highway 90 toward Missoula. Looks like I get another visit to the university town.

  Hunter and I both have our cell phones, and both have Motorola hand-helds, so we're able to stay in touch. By the time I again take the Orange Street turnoff, Pax tells me we're only a half mile or so behind the tracking devices, which are following the same route I did earlier in the day.

  I'm wondering if they're not on their way to some kind of move on the Rocky Mountain Lab, and maybe if we should have a pair of Hazmat suits.

  My phone buzzes with a text, and Pax informs me they've stopped, both at the same place, which allows Hunter and me to close the distance between us and them. Just as we reach where they've stopped, I see Maggie exiting a service station mini-market, carrying a couple of cups of coffee. Both the Prius and the Jeep Rubicon are gassing up. A Ford pickup with a cover on the back and the Toyota Highlander are on the lot and Maggie is talking to guys in two other vehicles. It seems most of the ARA camp is on the move. There are at least a dozen men and three or four women. Then I see J. J., my target, exit the market's exterior ladies room door and pile into a vehicle. It's just getting dark, but J. J. is well lit by the mini-market's lights.

  Four vehicles: the Prius, the Rubicon, the Toyota and the Ford. Something big is up. I don't think they're taking in dinner and a movie, particularly since they're all dressed in black.

  And they head out north, taking Highway 93 toward Hamilton, the home of Rocky Mountain Lab.

  We follow at a discreet distance. Then, to my slight surprise, they turn back east, toward the little town of Stevensville, pass through it, and suddenly we're out in a sparsely populated area in the foothills of the Sapphire Mountains. I let Hunter in the Jeep lead the way and kill the lights on the van, not wanting it to look like a platoon is following the ARA vehicles. Then he suddenly pulls off to the side and kills his lights as I realize the four vehicles have slowed almost to a stop.

  Hunter walks back to the van and leans on the driver's side door. "Did you notice the sign back there?"

  "I missed it."

  "Funky Furs. One of the biggest mink growers in Montana is just up ahead. I'll bet the ARA types are up to some old tricks."

  I sigh, wondering just what the hell we should do. I'm not here to protect some fur farm's investment, but then again I'm not real happy with what I've observed about ARA. Are they really what they claim—animal rights advocates—or something more? Right now it looks like animal rights advocates is right on the money.

  The four ARA vehicles have disappeared from sight, probably having turned their lights off.

  I text Pax with the company name, and almost as quickly I get a Google Earth aerial of Funky Farms and a report that the two tracking devices have stopped on the far side of Funky Furs.

  I dig a Smith and Wesson M&P15 out of one of the hideout panels in the van and a pair of night vision goggles, pull the van well off the road, lock it up, and join Hunter in his jeep.

  He eyes the .223 and stutters a little, "We…uh…we going to war?"

  "Nope, just being cautious. There's a road on the property this side of the fur farm, and it's the high ground. Let's wander up there, lights off. I'd like to observe for a while."

  But he's not quite convinced. "I ain't ready for no shooting war."

  "Nor am I…but you said they had a pile of weapons and I don't want to take a smile to a gunfight. We're gonna stay out of their way. I just want to watch…."

  He shrugs, fires up the Jeep, leaves the lights off, and in moments we're atop a small hill on the west side of Funky Furs, less than a quarter mile from what appears to be a house—dark, no lights—with a walkway connected to an office-fronted barn at least eighty feet in length. There's a two car garage next to the house, but the garage doors are open and no vehicles are parked inside. A silo, probably full of feed, is next to the barn. A small vacation trailer, maybe twenty feet in length, sits behind the barn, and it has lights on and a mini-truck parked in front. The place appears to be a forty-acre parcel, nicely treed, and almost covered with raised cages to about the height of a man.

  I keep scanning the area with the night-vision glasses. Then I realize that three men are approaching the trailer, all carrying long arms. In moments they bust in and drag a man out, and shove him to his knees, two keeping him covered while a third binds his hands behind him and his ankles. They shove him over, then I see a dozen other ARA types charge into the rows of cages and begin ripping paperwork off the front of the cages and opening cage doors.

  That's of interest to me, but no more than the fact that two blackclad men carrying long arms are breaking into the darkened house. One of them also carries a sledge hammer and the other a big crow bar. They kick the back door in, and lights come on inside. I have a clear view through a wide sliding glass door into what appears to be a master bedroom, and see them go straight to a framed picture on the wall, tear it away and discard it, then begin ripping a wall safe right out of the wall. Within ten minutes they're back outside and heading away, one of them now carrying the safe, the other carrying both weapons. I guess they've left their tools behind.

  In twenty minutes, they've stolen the safe, opened most if not all the cages, and have escaped.

  I have Hunter drive me back to the van, and on the way get a text from Pax that the marked vehicles are heading north, back toward Missoula, on a back road.

  I pull a throwaway cell phone out of the van's glove compartment, make a quick call to 911 and report lots of cars and suspicious activity at Funky Furs, then haul ass. I'm feeling guilty about not going down and freeing the Funky Fur employee, or night watchman, or whatever he is and hope he's okay…but I'm not ready to explain to the loc
al sheriff why I was perched on a nearby hill with night vision equipment and a fully automatic M&P15 with two 30 round clips taped together.

  I'm heading home to Maxville.

  I'll read about it in the newspaper tomorrow, and hope the guy tied up on the ground doesn't get eaten by a bevy of pissed off minks.

  17

  Hunter headed out to have breakfast with Al, his girlfriend, with instructions to take his notebook and my spotting scope back to the mountainside and spend the day doing recon.

  I'm shocked when I go to breakfast in Drummond at The Wagon Wheel, pick up a Missoulian newspaper, and read that eco-terriorists have stolen a half million dollars in cash, gold coins, and diamonds and murdered the son of the Funky Furs owners near Stevensville.

  Not only shocked, but saddened and angry to the marrow of my bones. I can feel the heat creep up my backbone and know that if I let it settle in my brain, I'll roar into the ARA compound and do my best to dispatch every male there, as I'm sure it was men who dragged the kid out of his trailer and then broke into the house and made off with the wall safe.

  I guess I missed the fact that they not only tied the kid up—a kid who was only seventeen—but slit his throat.

  And I stood on my hilltop and watched, and did nothing. I feel like I should go in the bathroom and puke.

  As I've thought since I met with Remington in NY, these guys have ulterior motives for their supposed animal rights activities. A half million is certainly an ulterior motive.

  One would wonder why a guy would keep a half million in cash, gold and diamonds in his bedroom wall safe, but when you consider the obscene low interest rates banks pay on savings deposits, it becomes somewhat more clear. In fact I'm surprised most folks aren't burying their savings in their back yard. And the article relates that Mr. Allenthorpe, owner of Funky Furs, often traded furs for gold and diamonds.

  The Allenthorpes, as the article reveals, came home to find their cages open and animals in the wild, all the breeding records—the paperwork was on the front of each cage—destroyed. And, far worse, their son murdered. At least I called 911 and the sheriff was waiting there when they arrived, their son covered with a tarp.

  Fuck.

  I'm picking Pax up at the Missoula airport at noon, and am glad of it, as he's always a calming influence. I, on the other hand, rush in where angels fear to tread. I know he'll bring me to my senses and not only see that I do the job I'm hired to do, but make sure I stay clear of the cold blooded murder charges I'd so like to incur at the moment.

  I need to get the other ARA vehicles marked with a tracking device. I need to listen in on some private conversations between Rostov, Hutchins, McFadden and the others at the top rung of the dirty ladder.

  I've made up my mind that I'm not only going to do my job—recovering Remington's daughter—but I'm going to clean up this rat's nest.

  The hell of it is, part of this bunch are kids with good, if misguided, hearts and intentions. The last thing I want is to punish the wrong ARA member. I'll probably know a lot more soon as Pax says he's bringing a ream of material on ARA members, this time from the bottom up as he was able to recover a file full of pledges—wherein all members have signed and pledged to support and be faithful to the group, and to all animals of the universe. I have to laugh and wonder if they've ever come face to face with a spitting cobra.

  And again I laugh as they've all pledged their personal possessions and net worth to the support of the organization and its aims. I wonder how many of them know about Rostov's growing Bahama bank account?

  I have time to calm down a little on the fifty mile drive from Drummond to Missoula, only to find that Pax's flight's been delayed over an hour due to some mechanical problem. So I return a couple of miles to town, find a Sportsman's Warehouse, and invest a couple of hundred bucks in 9mm, 7.62 and .223 ammo, then find an REI store and invest a couple of hundred more in some climbing gear just for the hell of it. Actually, some of the country flanking the ARA compound would require ropes and pitons to scale.

  This time the plane arrives and I'm happy to note Pax has not eaten, as it's past lunch time and Hunter has suggested I try The Montana Club, just off Highway 90 on the same drag, Reserve Street, where I found both stores.

  Pax, never one to waste much time, hauls in a two inch binder stuffed with info on ARA members, and I read while he tries to make time with a cute waitress, to no avail.

  Of note is the fact that Jane Jasper Remington is not the only trust fund baby to become a disciple of the Animal Revolutionary Army. Four other girls, all in their late teens and early twenties, are all former members of the Animal Liberation Army, the Animal Rights Militia, or Animals NOW. And all the girls are from very wealthy families who've foolishly set them upon the world with sizable assets in their own names, and no blisters from having earned a dime of it. It's a bad combination, particularly when you have a warped sense of who's on top, man or animal. I love animals, particularly dogs and horses, but if I have to choose between an animal and a parent, or any other human being, there's no question in my mind what the choice has to be. No question.

  When our food comes, I look up from my reading and ask, "So, what's not in this pile?"

  He smiles. "They've been doing quite a lot of emailing, even back and forth among themselves, much of it encoded. I have Sol working on it now. Probably by the time we're back to your camp site he'll have a pile of decoded messages. What's next on your plate?"

  "I want to get some trackers on the other vehicles and a listening device or two in place. There's a meeting room we need to bug and Rostov's personal quarters."

  "So, we have a date there tonight?"

  "You have a date with my SASS."

  "Great, you picked up another one?"

  "Yep, semi-auto, XM110, 7.62 in the case with night vision and a 6 x 20 Nikon that looks good. You'll be able to put one through an eyeball at a half mile. Let's get the hell out of here so we can sight it in on the way back."

  "Over the counter, I hope?" he asks, with a tight grin.

  "Over a pickup tailgate. I didn't ask where he got it and he didn't ask why I wanted it. He was smiling when he left with six grand in his jeans."

  Just as we get back to the van, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance as I bring it out, Hunter.

  "Hey," he begins, "they're on the move again."

  18

  I cover the phone with a hand and ask Pax, "Can you track the ARA vehicles with your laptop?"

  "Does a big bear ka ka in these here hills?"

  I go back to the phone. "Can you trail them in your jeep without getting spotted?"

  "Shit yeah," he says, and I wish I was so confident.

  "We're headed your way. Keep in touch on the phone. How many cars?"

  "Looks like six this time. Must be thirty or more of them."

  "Is the girl with them?"

  "Hell if I know. Lot's of them is girls."

  "You gonna be able to tell which way they've gone?"

  "I doubt if I'll get down to the highway in time."

  "We'll track the Prius and the Rubicon and call you when we know which way they turn."

  "Ten four," he replies, and is gone.

  "Thanks, Alysia," Pax says, leaving the cute waitress a ten dollar tip, which gets him a smile and a wave.

  I filled Pax in on the events at Funky Furs while we ate and as we headed back east on Highway 90, and while he sets up his laptop to track the Prius and Rubicon, he quizzes me.

  "Why didn't you turn these ARA a-holes over to the local law?"

  "First, I didn't realize they'd sliced the kid's throat. I thought they'd left him tied up. Second, if I did it and the locals busted them it would take a year to get the pricks to trial, even in Montana, and then they might get life in the can which I think is real injustice. Worse, some of the bad guys might get to walk. The kid rots in a grave, his family mourns for the rest of their lives and are never happy again, and the rotten cocksuckers get three hots and a cot
and TV and a weight room. No way. I may get a chance to be judge, jury, and executioner…and that's just fine by me. I'll deal with them when I know for sure who goes down for the count. I'll deal with the pearly gates when it's my time."

  Pax chuckles. "Well, you haven't mellowed much. I get it, believe me." He plays with the keys a moment, then I can hear the smile in his voice. "I've got them on screen. They're passing Phillipsburg, heading southeast. What's that way?"

  "Don't know, haven't been that way. I should have put a tracker on Hunter's Jeep so we'd know where he is in case he gets out of phone range."

  I pick up my iPhone and poke Hunter's number in.

  "What direction?" he answers.

  "They're headed past Phillipsburg. Any idea where they might be going?"

  "Hell, Georgetown Lake, or Anaconda, or any of a hundred campgrounds. Nothing that way in the way of animal farms or whatnot that I know of."

  "Get on their tail if you can catch up."

  Hell, maybe they're out for a day's fun after their great success at Funky Furs?

  So I turn to Pax. "If all, or even most of them are gone, this will give us a chance to bug the compound."

  "And miss what they're up to?" Pax says.

  "I want to make sure who the real bad guys are. I don't want to put down some innocent kid who's been hoodwinked by Rostov and his cronies. And I don't want to have to kidnap Jane Jasper. I'd have to drive her all the way to New York and then worry about her filing charges no matter what her old man says."

  "Let's see who they left behind, if anyone."

  "Oh, there'll be someone standing guard."

  Rather than head straight for ARA's camp, I return to Hunter's cabin, mount up on the Harley, and get a Glock for Pax. He follows me back to the turn off to the ARA compound and we make a plan. He changes clothes into hiking attire, concealing the Glock in the small of his back under his un-tucked shirt. He'll leave the van out of sight of the gate and go to the gate on foot, a lost hiker, and if there's a guard he'll keep him busy while I slip down the mountain and plant a few devices. I'm going up the forest service road overlooking the compound with my binocs and will drop down as close as I can get and still see the gate.