by L. J. Martin
We'll have our cell phones but will use our handheld Motorolas with ear buds for primary. I'm going in with my Glock, three extra sixteen shot clips, and my Mossberg combat shotgun with the first two of six rounds being beanbag non-lethal, the next four double ought buck, and a bandolier with another dozen. The Mossberg has a light mounted on the rails near the muzzle, but no laser sight. If you can't hit something with double ought, you should go into selling shoes or running a hot dog stand.
We'll rest up until midnight then hit the place.
"When's moonrise?" I ask Pax and he checks his laptop.
"We're golden. Not until four thirty AM."
"Cool."
Just as we decide to try and grab some zees, my phone vibrates and I see the caller is the sheriff. "Yes, sir," I answer.
"The Justice of the Peace put a hundred grand bail each on those three ARA assholes...really high for this part of the world...but they made bail via a bondsman in Helena, Max Isenberg, and I had to cut them loose a couple of hours ago. Max told me Rostov laid out thirty grand cash like it was chump change. Thought you'd like to know."
"Thanks for the heads up."
"My pleasure. Anything new up there?"
"No, sir," I lie. "We're about to call it a night."
"Sleep light. These guys have a hard-on for you two."
"Will do, Sheriff. Thanks again."
"I'm going ahead and swearing out a warrant on this Rostov guy for his participation in that fiasco at the Vet's Hall, and plan to go into the ARA compound in the morning...so I'd suggest you guys steer clear of the place."
"What's up?" Pax asks as I hang up.
"The big Indian and the other two are out of the hoosegow, and Petersen and his troops are hitting the ARA compound with a warrant for Rostov early in the morning. So it's propitious that we go in tonight."
"Let's get some rest," Pax says, setting the alarm on his iPhone for midnight.
As I suspected, I'm unable to sleep, but I do get three hours of relaxation before his phone dings a few times. Pax, who can sleep through an air raid, wakes and stretches.
I have a cap for the headlight on the Harley that dims the light to a small spot and only illuminates the road for a dozen feet. Pax will put it to use well before he gets where there's any possibility of his being seen from the camp. I'll roll up the road to the compound using only my parking lights and will kill them well before I could possibly be seen.
I get to where I want to back the van into a copse of lodgepole pine without running into an ARA vehicle coming or going, and just as I'm comfortable where it's positioned—as I have yet to get my radio ear bud in place—my cell phone vibrates. It's Pax.
"This is all wrong," he says.
"What?"
"There's only one pickup down there. There's no guard on the cabin and a guy moving around, and it looks like he's pouring something out of a five gallon gas can."
"You think he's torching the place?"
"Looks like it to me."
"I'm going in, balls to the wall."
"I'm set up. Hoora!"
I fire up the van and peel out. It's only another three hundred yards to the gate, but I'm going sixty when I smash through the wrought iron and see it flying ahead of me.
Caught like a deer in the headlights is the white haired guy, Pasternak, with a red plastic five gallon gas can in hand. He's standing in front of the main building. He drops the gas can, throws a match to the ground at his back, and starts to run as I slide to a stop and jump out with Mossberg in hand. The front of the building goes up with a whoosh that says there's been lots of gasoline poured.
I'm wishing I had my double ought's in place, but then again we might want to question the asshole, just in case he's the only one left in the compound. I lay down on him and bust him in the small of the back from less than thirty yards, and he flies forward like he's been blindsided by a three hundred pound Raider's linebacker. As quickly as I can get beside him, I kick him hard in the ribs and roll him over.
"What's going on?" I command, but he's breathless for a second, then manages to mumble.
"Fuck you."
But he looks very frightened, and keeps glancing at the building . The whole front is already involved in flame. Then it dawns on me: The women!
I haul ass for the same side door I'd gone in to plant the bug, and this time find it locked. But it doesn't stand up against the second beanbag from only two feet. I have to duck as I charge into the big room as the smoke level is lowering fast, already down to four feet or so. And it's dark as hell, so I switch on the light on the muzzle of the Mossberg and pan it around.
Three bodies are in the middle of the room.
Am I too late?
25
I crab across to the first one, who I may have seen when they all crowded into the Vet's Hall. She's a short fuzzy haired redhead. I put a finger on her carotid in her neck and get a pulse, but she's out cold. I hope the other two are merely unconscious as well.
I have to set the Mossberg aside, but do so, and drag her to the door and twenty feet outside. I'd drag her farther, but it was already getting hot in the middle of the big room, and I run like hell to get the second one, and realize it's the tall blond, Inga.
Selfishly, I'm thinking I should have dragged Jane Jasper Remington, my payday, out first, but I take them as they come. Inga is bigger and more of a load than the redhead, but I get her out and on the ground, then charge back in. Jane Jasper is shorter, but equally as heavy as Inga. My eyes are burning badly with the smoke, and I'm trying to hold my breath. I decide it'll take too long to drag her, so I get her up and do a fireman's carry and charge for where I can no longer see the door, but think I know where it is. I miss, and bounce off the log wall and we both go down hard. But as fate will have it, from flat on my back I can see the opening under the last foot of smoke free space, and roll, grab her under the arms, and heaving and huffing am outside. I can't see a damn thing as my eyes are burning and tearing, but it's easy to know where to go—away from the heat, which is beginning to sear my hair, eyebrows and lashes.
Even though unconscious, Jane Jasper is coughing, and I follow suit, trying to clear my lungs.
I do get some vision back, and sit up to a very unpleasant sight. The white haired guy is stumbling my way, one hand behind him, rubbing his back. Passing a tool rack lined with shovels, hoes and rake—and a few hand tools—he grabs one up. As he nears I suddenly realize he has a machete, and he looks as if he intends to fillet or behead me.
And I've left the Mossberg inside, now a raging inferno.
However, he only gets to about ten feet away, when his head explodes like a melon and his evil grin turns to an open mouth full of blood. He slams to his side on the ground, soaking it in brain and blood.
Thank you, Mr. Weatherwax.
I drop to my back and cough for a while, not bothering to answer my vibrating iPhone, until I realize that even where we are, the heat is getting too intense. I have to act, and again go to work, dragging the ladies, one at a time, until we are each fifty feet, then dragging them again until a hundred feet from the now totally involved structure.
It's all I can do to get my legs under me, but I do so and get to the van and get it over to the women. As I'm loading the first one, I see the single light of a motorcycle careening into the compound. Happily, it's Pax.
"You didn't answer your phone, dickhead!" he yells at me as he leaps off the bike and lends a hand loading the ladies.
"Sorry, dingus, I was a little busy. Good shot, by the way. Did you pick up your brass?"
"Didn't throw the bolt. You don't have to if the first shot counts. But, thanks. No hill for a stepper."
In moments we're hauling ass out of there, as I hope we'll beat the incoming fire trucks and cop cars, which I'm sure are on their way. Then I realize the compound can't be seen from the highway. Unless someone is camped high in the mountains or flying overhead, the fire will go unseen, and probably undiscovered, until the she
riff makes his raid in the morning or it lights up the whole forest and half the state shows up to fight fire.
Luckily, the forest is very wet and there is over a hundred feet separating the burning building from other structures or trees. Still, I dig a throwaway phone out of the glove compartment of the van and make a 911 call and report the fire.
I'd hate, hate, hate to have the whole damn mountain go up in flames.
With Pax following me, we stop in the parking lot of the Vet's Hall and check on the women, who are still out cold.
It's not yet two AM, and the place is still open with a half dozen diehards' cars and pickups parked outside. One of the trucks is a crew cab, with room to hold all three ladies.
"Drugged, you think?" I ask Pax.
"Ruffies, I'll bet," he says, and again checks. "They all three have strong pulses."
"I hope it's ruffies...if so they'll be okay tomorrow. But we've got to get them some help in case it's something worse."
"I'll see who's in the bar," Pax says.
"No, I'll see who's in the bar, you get on your laptop and see where the ARA cars are headed."
"You're right. Go."
There are two couples playing pool, two more throwing darts, and the same two old cowboys I've seen before at the bar.
"Whose crew cab pickup is outside?" I yell loud enough to be heard over the juke box and Big and Rich wailing away.
One of the old cowboys looks over and eyes me up and down. "Who wants to know?" he asks.
"I've got some injured ladies outside who need a ride to the hospital."
"Injured how?" he asks, but he's on his feet and moving toward the door with his buddy close behind. Everyone in the place follows.
As soon as he sees the women stretched out in the van, he again gives me a look, only this one is hard and suspicious. "What the hell's going on here? Why don't you haul them to the hospital? How the hell do I know you two didn't do something to them?"
26
I try to be patient, although I don't feel it. "I think they've been drugged." I reach in my back pocket and flip open my wallet, showing him my bail enforcement officer's badge, hoping he won't insist on a close look, as a couple of day's training, the sponsorship of a bondsman or other bail enforcement officer, and thirty-five bucks for the brass is all it takes. Then I add, "I'm going after the guys who did this."
Just about that time, two hundred yards away on Highway 1, a fire truck with a following sheriff's car passes, sirens and lights blaring.
So I add, "And they set some buildings on fire up the canyon."
"Get them in the pickup," he says with a hint of a southern drawl, and a couple of the other guys pitch in to help me transfer them. As soon as we do, one of the pool playing women offers to ride along, and climbs in and they're off to Phillipsburg. I turn to another of the ladies, "Call the hospital and tell them they're on their way. I'd guess it's ruffies, but don't know."
"What's a 'ruffies'?" she asks. Sometimes I forget I'm in the boondocks.
"Just tell them, please."
Then I get the bad news. Pax walks over. "They must have found your tracking devices. I'm getting nothing."
"They were getting suspicious. How about cell phones?" I ask.
"Negative. Nothing."
"Okay. Obviously they're onto the fact they're being watched and have stepped up their agenda. Where's the worst possible place they could be heading?" I ask, knowing the answer.
"The Rocky Mountain Lab," he says, and is dead on the money.
"I wonder how long they've been gone from the compound".
"Way less than an hour, possibly," Pax reasons. "If the guy was left behind to burn the place down, then they probably went out just before we went in."
"Okay," I say, and dig into my phone contacts and find Hunter's cell number. On the seventh or eighth ring, Al answers, sleepily.
"Hel...Hello," she says.
"Al, it's Mike Reardon. I need your help."
"I was asleep in the waiting room. My back's killing me."
"Then you can probably use getting up and moving around. These ARA guys are on the move. I need you to get out to Highway 93 just as it heads south out of town, and watch for them. They are in a half dozen of their cars and you can't miss them. Get out there and call me back if you see them."
"This is something you really need?" she asks, again yawning.
"You want me to get even with whoever busted Hunter up?"
"Yes," she says, this time adamantly. "He's still in Critical Care. They took out his spleen and had to put some pins in his leg, and he's in traction. He had a break in his wrist and has a cast there."
"At least he's alive. So go. I'm headed that way."
"Okay, I'll call if I see them," she says, and hangs up.
I'm about out of throwaway cell phones, and dig into the glove compartment and find one more. As we're hauling ass toward Missoula, Pax driving and the speedometer bouncing off a hundred when there are no headlights in sight, I dig for the number of the Rocky Mountain Lab. I get it, call, and, of course, get a recording. Having no other choice, I call the Ravalli County Sheriff's Office and a kid, who sounds about fifteen, answers. "Dispatch."
"I have reason to believe that someone will try and break into the Rocky Mountain Lab tonight."
"Your name and telephone number?" he asks.
"Doesn't matter. Can you patch me through to the sheriff?"
"Your name and telephone number?" he asks again.
"How about the officer on duty?"
"Look, how am I supposed to know if this is a crank call or not? We get lots of stuff about the—"
"Look, kid, patch me through to someone with a brain." It appears that was not a constructive response on my part.
"Name and phone number or I'm hanging up."
"Wait, wait. Can you give me the number of security at the Rocky Mountain Lab?"
He rolls off a telephone number as if it's taped to the wall over his desk and I make note of it, hang up, then realize it's the same number I'd dialed that got me a recording.
Fuck.
Then I realize that the little town of Hamilton has a police department, dig for their number on the web, and find it. This time it's a woman who answers. "Hamilton Police. No one's in the office. If this is an emergency please dial 911."
A bloody recording. So I do. "911. What's your emergency?"
"I need to have you patch me through to security at Rocky Mountain Lab."
"This is 911, sir. What's your name and your emergency."
"Please patch me through."
"Sir, this is not a secretarial service. This is the 911 emergency number. Your name and the nature of your emergency please."
"My name is John Miller and the nature of my emergency is I have information that some very bad people are going to try and break into the Rocky Mountain Lab."
"We have pickets there often, sir."
"I'm talking break in here."
"I'll let the officer on patrol in the area know."
"And their security?"
"He'll stop by."
"And Homeland Security?"
"He'll stop by the Lab."
So, I hang up and turn to Pax. We're in the middle of Missoula but making good time as there's no one on the road. "Step on it. It looks like it's up to us."
27
My phone vibrates as soon as I hang up from the 911 call and I see it's Hunter's cell phone calling.
"Al, what's up?" I answer.
"There are only two cars. That gray Jeep Rubicon and a white Dodge pickup with three guys in the front seat. It's a good thing they're in that fancy Jeep or I might not have noticed. I can't tell how many are in the Jeep."
"Only two vehicles? You sure the others aren't behind...stopped by a red light or something?"
"I can't see anyone else."
"Did they see you?"
"Nope. I'm in a parking lot a couple of hundred feet from Highway 93."
"Can you follow them
without being seen?"
"I guess."
"We're maybe a mile behind. We'll catch up as soon as we get through town and take over for you."
"Good. I need to get back to the hospital."
We catch up to Hunter's Jeep by the second stoplight in the little town of Lolo, and pull up beside her. I yell over. "Thanks, Al, I owe you. Get back and take care of Hunter."
"Be careful," she yells back, and turns off into a parking lot to turn around. In less than a minute we're a hundred yards behind the white Dodge pickup and see the Rubicon up ahead, so we, too, turn off and let them get a few hundred yards in front of us. We're still a half hour to Hamilton, and it wouldn't do to be made by them...so we play it very casual. The van is easy to spot as it's pretty big and white. We have to be careful.
We have to swing to the curb and kill our lights shortly after we cross the river and enter Hamilton, as they are ahead of us only a block and a half, and are stopped at a light.
Oops, they split up, with the pickup going straight ahead and the Rubicon turning right onto main street, which is little more than two blocks of businesses, and where I had lunch during my visit here.
"What do you think?" I ask Pax.
"Jeep. That one is registered to Rostov and I'm sure he's driving."
"Jeep it is."
Pax gives them time to get a couple of blocks ahead, then makes the turn and follows. As we exit town going west, we cross the river again. I know the Bitterroot River is the west boundary of Rocky Mountain Lab property, so am a little surprised, until I see the Jeep's brake lights come on and the vehicle swerves across the oncoming lane and pulls up in front of a barbed wire fence. I have to use my binocs as soon as Pax again kills his lights, and see that one of them is out with a pair of bolt cutters and quickly snips the four strands away.
