by L. J. Martin
Whitey is Pasternak, nickname Patsy. He strides straight over and he too adds to the problem. "That's him, chief. That's the prick I saw going up the hill behind your house. I think he was after your woman."
Rostov yells across the bar, addressing Inga's back. "That true, Sorrensen? This guy come calling like a cur in heat? Some kind of dirty butt lickin' dog...."
She glances over her shoulder, then faces the back bar again. "I met him with Maggie down at the Sunshine. This is the first time I've seen him since. They offered to buy me a drink, but I shined them on…isn't that right, Al?"
Al is behind the bar, a glass and towel in one hand, the phone in the other. She merely smiles, obviously more interested in staying out of the argument, and hopefully calling the cops.
"That ain't our game," Rostov says, motioning with his chin at the pool table, his scarred face red around an ugly eyebrow scar under his dirty blond hair. He's square jawed, a Nordic type with ice blue eyes, and women probably find him attractive. If they can get by the heinous glare.
He continues. "Kicking ass is our game. Were you trespassing on ARA property?"
White-hair Pasternak has been staring at Pax, and then he adds fuel to the fire. "And that fucker is the one what come to the gate saying he was lost, about the time the ugly one was dickin' around your cabin."
I laugh. "Did the same lightning bolt that turned your hair white cook your sorry brain?"
Rostov starts to say something to Pax, and has taken his eyes off me, so I take the opportunity to bring the stubby end of the pool cue up from the floor and plant it deep into his crotch like I'm going to knock his balls out of the park. He makes a sound like he's choking up a pine cone, falls back into the arms of the big Indian, and Pasternak and Sainz stand with jaws dropped. The evil glaring eyes are now round as golf balls. But the bigger and uglier of the three, Hutchins, charges me, which gives Pax the opportunity to smash his nose with the blunt end of his pool cue. Blood gushes as he goes to his back, coughing, choking, and rolling back and forth in pain while trying to hold his supply of blood in his smashed nose.
Rostov has both hands on his crotch and he sinks to his knees. The Indian steps forward and takes a wild swing at me with a ham sized fist and I feel the whish of air go by my ear, but he misses clean, then merely watches me as I back out of his reach. His nose is still swollen from his last visit to the Vet's Hall and maybe he has second thoughts about taking another whack.
Pax and I head for the door with two dozen ARA members between it and us, swinging our pool cues as if we were thrashing weeds or going for a fast ball, and they scramble back as the whishing sound like a big league bat warns of a broken bone.
Then we're out into the night air, and I'm very, very surprised that we exit clean. We pass Hunter who's on his way in, and he looks a little confused. I yell at him, "Take a hike. The shit hit the fan in there. See you back at the barn."
In seconds Pax is in the van and I've fired up the Iron, and we peel out. I glance over my shoulder to see that Jane Jasper Remington has followed me out of the saloon. That could be a very good thing.
God is good, particularly if He's convinced her I'm one of the good guys.
We head straight back up the road to Hunter's cabin, which could be a mistake. There's only a couple of two-tracks as escape routes as the road plays out a few miles into the canyon, and you'd have to know the country to find them. Pax has brought a goose-down sleeping bag with him, and mine is always in the van. As soon as we get there we park the vehicles, hook a water hose up to the sink supply and an electrical cord to the van and leave a light on inside. The last place we want to be is cornered in an enclosed van with the possibility of two dozen shooters headed our way, but the fact is I want it to lure them in. We move up the hillside behind the cabin, Pax with the 7.62 SASS and me with a Mossberg combat shotgun and a box of double ought—no plug means five in the magazine and one in the chamber. And both of us have our Glocks with a couple of spare magazines. I have night vision goggles, and Pax a night vision scope.
Now we climb a hundred feet up the mountain and find a spot where we can see them far better than they can see us…and wait.
When they don't show up in an hour, we decide to unroll the bags and take turns standing two hour watches. The sun lights the high mountains before we decide the excitement is over for a while and, each taking a different route to recon the neighborhood, head back down to the van and cabin. Hunter's Jeep has not shown up and there are no lights in his cabin, which makes me wonder if he didn't go home with Al. Then as Pax and I are in a couple of folding chairs by the campfire having coffee, my phone vibrates. I note it's just before seven.
We'd been enjoying the fact we escaped unscathed from the Vet's Hall, and the fact the blood spilled was the other guys.
"Yo," I answer after noting it's an unknown caller.
"Mike, it's Al."
"What's up? Is Hunter with you?"
"Yes, unfortunately we're both in the Phillipsburg hospital and he's in very bad shape…critical, the doc says."
"What happened?"
22
Al sobs for a moment before she continues. "He came in the Vet's Hall right after you and that Pax guy fought your way out, and those assholes from ARA ganged up on him. They would have killed him if the cops hadn't showed. Three of them are in the Phillipsburg jail—"
"Are you okay?"
"They didn't touch me. The boss guy dragged that blond girl out with him, so I don't know about her."
"Damn it, I saw Hunter outside and told him to haul ass. Is Rostov in the can?"
"The asshole…the boss guy…no, he hauled ass out the back. The big Indian, the guy they call Saint, and one they call Hutch. Hutchins, I think it is."
"I'm on my way."
"Good. Hunter asked about you. They got him pretty doped up. Doc says they're probably going to have to take out his spleen at the least. He's pretty busted up."
"You need anything?"
"Just some moral support."
There's nothing the two of us can do, so I leave Pax with the Harley and lead him to the cut-off where the forest service road goes above the camp. He has my good binocs and a pair of receivers to pick up the audio from both the bugs I planted, and a recording device. Both bugs have their own thirty two gig chips, in addition to the transmitter, but you have to physically recover them to get the recordings.
The Granite County Medical Center is more than you might expect from a county with only a little over four thousand population. It's a solid looking brick building with variegated colors and a flat roof. As I wheel into the parking lot, a helicopter is lifting off a pad in the rear, and a half dozen people are standing by a gurney, watching it go. One of them is without the typical hospital white coat or candy stripes.
As I hustle that way, Al turns and sees me coming, and jogs down and throws her arms around me, burying her face in my chest, and sobbing.
I wait a respectful few seconds, then ask, "That was Hunter in the chopper? Where are they taking him?"
"Missoula, to St. Patrick's."
"So, what's happening?"
"He got worse. Renal failure the doc said. They wouldn't let me fly with him so I'm driving over."
"Anything I can do…buy your breakfast, or what?"
"No, I've got to go. It's an hour over there and they'll have him in surgery or something by the time I get there. Can you come?"
"I can, but I think Hunter would prefer me taking care of business here. If they give you any trouble with his insurance or—"
"He ain't got no insurance since he got laid off at the lumber company."
"Call me if you need help."
"You going after those ARA guys?"
"You're better off not knowing."
"You have Hunter's cell number…I called you from his cell. I still have it with me."
"I do."
She eyes me carefully for a second, then says, very seriously, "Fuck those guys up if you can. Eye for eye
and all that stuff."
I merely smile, and she heads for a little Honda parked nearby.
As I'm climbing up into the van, my phone vibrates. Pax never bothers with hello. "You ain't gonna believe this one, pard."
"Let me be the judge."
"They're planning to hit the bug hotel."
"Rocky Mountain Lab? I was afraid of that."
"One and the same. They've got an inside man…or in this case a woman as they said 'she'. The lady has worked herself up to being a lab tech if I heard right. The sound could have been better."
"When?"
"I didn't get a time or a day, but I get the impression they've moved up the schedule because of the kid getting killed. They think the heat is on."
I fire up the van and use the hands-free as I pull out of the parking lot. "How's your buddy doing?" Pax asks.
"Not good, they had a chopper haul him to a bigger hospital in Missoula."
"What's the plan?"
"You hang tight and keep an eye on things. I'll call you when I hit Maxville."
"Guess what else?"
"Enough with the guessing games."
"Okay, grumpy. It seems the blond bombshell, little Miss Remington, and some other gal they called Susie are being held against their will…locked in a cabin with a guard. They took a little umbrage when they learned that Rostov and this guy Hutchins cut the kid's throat…it seems the kid was able to pull Rostov's mask off and got a good look at him. It was his death warrant."
"That's good news…that Miss Jane Jasper wants to get the hell out of Dodge."
"And even more interesting…and I won't make you guess…it ain't the ferrets and monkeys they want to free from Rocky Mountain Lab."
"So?"
"So they plan to snatch some little tiny creatures…bad bugs…and hold the whole country for ransom. The only term I recognized was Anthrax. They have a plane chartered, which they plan to commandeer when they board, and go somewhere where they can blackmail the whole friggin' U. S. of A."
"Ambitious boys."
"Eager, yes…eager to be dead boys, if I have my way."
"I'll be there soon."
But I don't get out of the parking lot, as Sheriff Mark Petersen swings in front of me, his red light glowing, and slides to a stop. He climbs out of the car and I notice he snaps the strap on his semi-auto free as he walks over to the driver's side window.
"Step out, Reardon."
I shrug, and comply.
"Hands on the vehicle, feet back," he commands, then adds. "You know the drill."
He relieves me of the Glock, runs his hands up and down my legs to make sure I don't have another hide-out, then steps back. "Okay, relax."
"What's up?" I ask.
He stands, arms folded, jaw clinched. "Word is you started that mess down at the Vets Hall."
"I was there, I threw one blow, then we got the hell out of there. We weren't around when the chicken shits ganged up on poor Hunter."
"Maybe you should have been."
"I ran into him on the way out and told him to get the hell out of there."
"His lady was inside. You should have known—"
"You're right, I should have, and I'm royally pissed at myself."
"The three boys I have locked up say you started the whole thing."
"Sheriff, look at me. One old country boy and his half crippled buddy! We'd start a battle with two dozen ugly old boys…half of whom have done hard time?" Pax would be pissed if he knew I called him a half-cripple, so I won't relate that part of the story. But it did make it better.
"Where are you headed?"
"Maxville."
"Stop at the Vets Hall and we'll talk more. I've got to go to Drummond, so it's on my way."
"You got it. Can I have my weapon back?"
"After we talk."
I shrug, and head out ahead of him. Hell, I've got a half dozen more, most larger, in the Van.
23
As we get close I call Pax and tell him where we're headed, and he says he'll join up.
There's a big ol' beer barrel size boy behind the bar, filling in, I guess, for Al. He nods when I walk in, and frowns when I order a coffee, just as the sheriff follows and does the same.
"I'll have to brew it," he mumbles, as the sheriff and I cross the room and take 'our' table.
"We've gotta quit meeting like this," I say. "People will talk."
"Maybe down in Las Vegas where you're from. People up here know better."
"So, how's the investigation coming?"
He shrugs. "You first."
"Well, you got half the really bad boys locked up and out of the way, and I hear my lady wants out and they won't let her go, so I have an excuse."
"You want me to go in and poke around? To be truthful, I got no just cause without somebody filing a complaint, and I'd rather wait just a couple of days."
I shake my head. "No, sir. I don't want them doing something stupid to the girl. I have reason to believe she may know some things you'd like to know, so let's keep her alive. Besides, she's a payday for me."
He leans back in his chair and again folds his arms and furrows his brow. "So, this is no more than a payday for you?"
"Sheriff, a young woman is in way over her head. And the blond, Inga, seems to want to get the hell out of there as well. And to tell the truth, I think she's a pretty nice lady and she, too, may have gotten herself into something she didn't expect. I don't much like what I see up there, so give me a chance to maybe do some things you can't do…you know, bail enforcement badge and all."
He leans forward, lots more interested. "So, does one of those guys have a warrant out?"
I smile. "Hell, you're the sheriff. You'd know better than I."
"That's probably more bullshit, but I'll take it at face value. I'm gonna tell you something you probably shouldn't know."
Now it's my turn to lean forward. "Go for it."
"You don't have to be quite so careful if you have to return fire."
"So, one of the three guys you have locked up is your inside man."
"I didn't say that. It's your turn to take it at face value."
"And I will." And as I finish the statement, the door is shoved open and Pax walks in. He hesitates, seeing whom I'm sitting with, but I wave him over.
"Sheriff," he says, extending his hand.
Petersen shakes but doesn't bother standing. "Join us," he says, and Pax pulls up a chair, just as the big bartender wanders over and places mugs in front of the two of us, then looks at Pax. "I guess you want a cup of coffee?"
"Pepsi," Pax says.
"Coke," the bartender replies.
"That'll do," Pax says, and the bartender wanders away.
"Anything new up the canyon?" I ask Pax.
"Lot of activity," he replies.
"You guys been eyeballing the ARA camp?" the Sheriff asks.
Pax hesitates, so I answer. "We have. Recon, we'd call it in the Corps. But yes, we've had eyes on it for a couple of days. Legal, from up the mountain."
"And?"
"Nothing exciting," I lie, as I don't want him charging in and risking my payday, and even more so I want to end this threat my way…not the law's way.
The sheriff digs in his wallet and hands me his card. "That's got my cell number. You boys need us, you just yell."
"Yes, sir," I say and rise as he does. He touches the rim of his hatband, and heads for the door. I add his number to my cell, then yell after him, "Hey, Sheriff, my sidearm."
He nods, and waves me to follow, which I do, and he hands it over from under his front seat. I shove it into my belt at the small of my back, under my shirt as I return to our table.
The bartender heads over and flops a ticket on the table. Where else could you get three cups of coffee for a buck fifty?
I repeat the question to Pax, now that the sheriff has exited. "Now that the man is gone, what's new up the canyon?"
"Lot of activity. I think they may be moving out."
"The hell you say. I think we better be moving in and spring the ladies."
"There's only one cabin with a guard outside the door. It's pretty obvious where they got the ladies holed up."
"So, let's go get them."
"I learned a few more things while I was laying on my butt up on the mountain. Thanks to Safari and my trusty iPhone."
"Are we gonna play Jeopardy again, or are you gonna tell me."
"Anthrax is, of course, among the many bad bugs living at the Rocky Mountain Lab. Do you remember a dozen or more years ago, an Army scientist was involved in the murder of a magazine editor…using Anthrax?"
I shrug. "I don't remember."
"Well, he was. He committed suicide so he was never prosecuted. Four others died and over a dozen got sick as hell…and that was from just a few spores. I called Sol back at the office and he did a search of Rostov's computer and turned up lots of web searches for Anthrax and infectious diseases. We gotta stop these pricks before lots of innocent folks die. You sure we shouldn't just give Homeland Security a call?"
"We can move lots faster. When it comes down to the nut cuttin', I'll call security over at Rocky Mountain Lab and give them a heads up."
"Okay, so long as we stay way ahead of them." He toasts me with his coffee cup, and we head out and back to Hunter's cabin to make some plans for the evening.
Kick ass plans.
24
Twice these ARA assholes have made me ashamed of myself, and I don't take that lightly. They killed a kid while I watched, even if I didn't know it was happening. They beat the double dogshit out of a new friend while I hightailed it up the road, now it seems like I ran with my tail between my legs. I'm heartsick over both, and I don't like being heartsick.
There's nothing like a good dose of revenge to cure heartsickness.
Our first piece of business is to get the ladies out of harm's way. Then it's to stop whatever these a-holes have planned.
Pax will take the Harley up to our overlook, with the 7.62 SASS and its night vision scope. I'll park the van out of sight in the trees, and out of sight of the front gate, as I'll need to transport at least three of the girls if I can successfully spring them from where they're being held in the cabin...hopefully they're still there. A guard being posted there will verify the fact. I'll go in on foot and try to take out the guard with a sap without waking the place. Pax will cover my intrusion and, I hope, my successful exit from the ARA compound.
