The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  "Capiche," he says, showing his Italian heritage and that he understands.

  We noticed when we passed where we were sure the compound sat on top of a hundred foot cliff, the tallest for over three clicks of shore, that a single light burned. After Pax and I pick our way about three hundred yards through the brush and trees, that light comes into view. We move on and as we move into and out of steep ravines that fall away to the sea below, the light comes in and out of view. Pax is doing very well considering he's not that long out of the hospital with multiple broken bones. I laugh to myself, as I picked a hell of a crew. A guy who’s been in a dungeon for four years and is skinny as the proverbial rail, and a guy just out of traction. It must be pure lust to kill the fat fuck, Gashi, that’s driving Pax on.

  It takes us well over an hour before we’re within two hundred yards of the complex of three buildings plus what looks to be a storage building and a garage. We’re a couple of hundred feet above the complex and can see most of it. I’d guess it’s two fenced acres and interestingly the underbrush has been cleared away two hundred feet on the three sides away from the sea and cliff-side. The road, or driveway, leading to it comes from the south and ends at what appears to be a wrought iron gate in a wall, adobe or concrete block, that’s at least seven feet high. Most the wall is covered by vines.

  The big surprise to me is that one of the garage buildings is actually a hanger, and outside it is a seventy foot square landing pad with a large X, faded badly but there, painted on its surface. There’s got to be a helicopter in that hanger.

  "Hey, you wizard, how about the helicopter," I ask Pax.

  "No elevations on Google Earth so I couldn’t tell how tall that one garage…which turns out to be a hanger…was, and for some reason, maybe the angle of the sun when they shot it, the X didn’t show up. But, no question in my mind, it’s a helipad."

  "Too bad you’re not a copter pilot or we might leave in style."

  "Funny you should say that. On the way over here while bullshitting with Fang, it turns out he’s not only a pilot but has qualified in choppers."

  "Fuck me!"

  "I’d rather pass, but the way some of those metrosexuals in Rome were checking you out, I’d think you could get a tumble."

  "Fuck you, I should say. What do you think our play is here. Do you want to wander down there and pick them off Apache style, or hold tight here and see what happens. If so, we may have to go down in the light."

  "Let’s hang. To be truthful, that hike shook me to the bone. I’m afraid I’m going to have to rely on the Barrett."

  "Okay."

  "You’re not going to give me a bad time?"

  "Fuck no. You’re the guy who spent two months in the hospital and two more healing up at home. I’ll give you a bad time after we get home."

  "Good. You’re not as big an asshole as I had you pegged to be."

  "Don’t underestimate me." I glance at my watch. "We’ve got an hour to dawn. If you want to catch some shuteye, and I know you can sleep on a bucking bull given the chance, I’ll wake you when we can see what’s going on."

  "Good night, sweet prince."

  "Fuck you, go to sleep."

  I let him sleep through the early light and until the sun is half over the mountains behind Dubrovnik, then shake him awake.

  "What the fuck, over," he says, then rubs the sleep out of his eyes. "Nice timing, asshole. I just had a half dozen of those strippers at Treasures Gentlemen’s Club using me for a pole dance."

  "Okay, then I’ll give you time for some blood to get from the little head back to your questionable brain. I saw some movement down in the courtyard. Some butt fuck moved out of one of the houses and into the hanger building."

  "You don’t suppose Fat Gashi is going somewhere?"

  "Who knows. See that rock over there…set the Barrett up there and get your mind right."

  Pax moves over and uses the tripod built into the Barrett’s stock and gets into a perfect position looking down into the yard.

  Nothing happens for an hour, and I’m beginning to think we made a bad mistake waiting and not going in under the cover of darkness, then the doors on the hanger begin to move aside.

  It’s another half hour before two more guys cross the yard and the three of them push a Hughes chopper out onto the helipad.

  The sun is beginning to warm us up pretty good before the main doors of the big house open and a couple of soldiers, each carrying an AK47, move out. And six feet behind them the doorway fills with a fat fuck who can only be Edvin Gashi, his own rotten self. A tall dude in a uniform top and jodhpur bottoms tucked into knee high black boots, follows him out, and he’s wearing a double rig with a revolver on each side, and red beret.

  Why not just use a megaphone and announce to the world that you’re a wanted war criminal?

  Pax smiles, and swings to zero in on his wide target…un-missable at two hundred yards.

  "Hold it," I snap. Behind two-gun is a woman, and two kids in their early teens. And they’re all crowded together.

  "Fuck," Pax mumbles.

  "He doesn’t have a wife and kids does he?" I ask.

  "No, but he mentioned some girlfriend he picked up in Rome. A French girl. Simone somebody whose last name I can’t pronounce. We got into her computer and she hates his guts but loves his money…for her and her kids."

  "Then fuck him. Make her a widow before she’s a philandering wife."

  But she and the kids are all over the fat boy, and Pax won’t risk a shot.

  They follow him to the door of the chopper and I think for a moment they’re all going, but realize it’s only a four-place bird. Then Gashi and two-gun get in and the others move back as two-gun takes the left seat, flips some switches, and the rotors begin to turn.

  "Can you take out the rotor head?" I ask him.

  "Yeah, but let's wait until he’s a little bit clear of the house. I don’t want to bring it down on the kids."

  "Good thinking."

  I can see Pax begin to slow his breathing, and consciously his heartbeat. I know he’ll even try to pull the shot off when his heart is momentarily quiet between beats.

  The chopper rises slowly up fifty feet, then begins to pull away toward the north.

  The Barrett roars and spits a little flame, even with the suppressor, but the chopper moves on, unaffected.

  The Barrett is semi-auto, so Pax doesn’t have to throw the bolt and I see him settle down and line up again, and wait patiently, then squeeze. The big rifle bucks again.

  I can’t believe he’s missed twice. I haven’t seen him miss at a thousand yards twice in a row, and this chopper can’t be over three hundred.

  Then the bird starts to heel over as the rotor blades seem to outrun the rotor head and begin to disintegrate; the body of the chopper dives straight down, with half of the fuselage colliding with the edge of the cliff, and it’s sheared away as the entire wreakage rolls and disappears out of sight. We hear an explosion, but don’t see it.

  I snap my binocs up and study the courtyard, where a couple of guys are standing with their hands on their cheeks as if stunned. I swing the binocs to the front door and, to my surprise, see the woman—a very beautiful woman—standing, giving the finger in the direction of the chopper, that's fallen out of sight over the cliff’s edge.

  As there’s no one looking our way—I guess the sound of the chopper quelled the gunshots—I begin to laugh. "The French lady seems very distressed. She flipped a bird at the crashing chopper."

  "I hope I meet her someday," Pax says. "Now, lets get the fuck out of here. I don’t think I’ve got a lot left."

  "Told you."

  "Fuck you."

  Epilogue

  We have to wait a week in Rome to get a free ride in Blackthorn’s new G6, with the same little blonde as flight attendant, I’m happy to say.

  The Italian newspaper, La Repubblica, is read to me by Scroder while we’re having coffee the first morning after we return. "Seems some prominent
Albanian gentlemen met an untimely fate in a helicopter accident last week. Don’t imagine you know anything about that?"

  "The old .416 rotor head failure," I offer, with a smile. "Does it say what caused the terrible accident?"

  "Nope, an accident, they report, and it seems the locals are not too sad about the whole affair. Seems this guy Gashi was buying up half the island and talking about building a paramilitary training facility…and no one was surprised to learn he was associating with a known war criminal. Interpol is expected there today to confirm a Colonel Ditan Bejko as the second casualty. Too bad no one’s stepped forward as there was a million dollar reward for his hide, dead or alive, courtesy of the United Nations."

  "I never much cared for helicopters myself," I say, and sip my expresso. "Damn things are always falling apart at the worst possible times."

  The G6, with a longer range than the G4, has no trouble making Atlanta without a stop in Portugal, and takes Pax, Fang, and me from there on to Vegas with just a change of fuel and restocking of the bar. Fang alternates between sleeping and catching up on his bent elbow time.

  I wake up somewhere over Oklahoma and am not surprised to hear Fang snoring away, across the aisle from me, and Pax missing. He is parachute qualified, but that is not a concern of mine—I am a little concerned for the little blonde flight attendant, but that concern is quickly quelled as she exits, smiling broadly, from the single compartment in the rear of the plane, adjusting her top. Pax peeks out of the same door about the time she comes even with me.

  Being the gentleman I am, I don’t suggest she’s done anything untoward, but cannot help but advise her, "You’re out of uniform, young lady."

  She stops short. "What do you mean?"

  "Your blouse buttons are off. If you're headed onto the flight deck you might want to rearrange them before the captain puts you on report."

  She blushes, and runs for the head without comment.

  Pax wanders forward and takes a seat behind me, and leans forward. "What did you say to Babs, asshole."

  "I merely asked her if you told her you had the clap, genital warts, and herpes."

  "Bullshit."

  "Yes, it is. Her buttons were off and I was saving her some embarrassment."

  "What a guy."

  "I wonder how that happened?"

  "She showed me her tattoo."

  "Right."

  The day after we got home to Vegas, Pax and I headed out to Compton. We delivered four cashier checks to Killer Carlos Juarez’s family. One hundred eighty four thousand three hundred and thirty three dollars each.

  Not that it made up for losing a great guy like him.

  Our new buddy, Fang, was left behind in Vegas to find the city's most reputable plastic surgeon and dentist.

  We suggested he get a total face replacement…if he’s gonna team up with The Repairman he’s got to learn to take it.

  VII

  No Good Deed

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Prologue

  Betty Jean Holland couldn't have been happier.

  She and her college friends, Phyllis Everettes and Coleen Clarkson, had been having the time of their lives on a Baltic cruise, now almost half over. They'd started in Stockholm—awash with handsome college age Swedish blond-haired blue-eyed boys—then Helsinki, Finland, then St. Petersburg, Russia. At each stop they'd been able to find the clubs and meet lots of handsome young guys, and had some adventures they'd never be able to tell their parents. The Russian's had been a little stoic and cold for their tastes, but looking at St. Petersburg, everywhere other than the tourist traps, they could understand why. But enough Russian Standard vodka and even those guys loosened up.

  Brown University, and Providence, Rhode Island, seemed a million miles and centuries away.

  Betty Jean knew she'd have to curb her enthusiasm at the next port of entry, as her father was meeting her in Copenhagen to sightsee with the girls and buy them the best supper in town. He worked not far from Denmark, in Belgium.

  The ship had tied up at Tallinn, Estonia in the night, and they were ready for another adventure in the exotic medieval walled-city by the sea.

  All of them had preened in front of the mirror, and now, as it was warm, were dressed in floppy hats, stretchy jeans and tank tops. Betty Jean, called B.J. by her buds, knew they'd catch the eye of every handsome boy in Tallinn. Coleen was on the chubby side, but had a cleavage that the Baltic boys seemed to admire. And her infectious giggle, Orphan Annie eyes, and slightly red locks made everyone smile, so the boys didn't seem to mind the extra twenty or thirty pounds.

  Betty Jean's short hair was sandy colored and her eyes hazel and she knew she was the prettiest of the three, but the boys seemed to be particularly attracted to Phyllis and her long black, to center of her back, locks that gleamed in the light like ebony, and perfect complexion. She, with coal black hair and perfect light skin was the exception in the Baltic.

  But the Baltic boys liked athletes too, and Betty Jean was a soccer player, avid sailor, and active outdoors person. She was on the gymnastics team as a freshman with Olympic hopes, but had grown too tall, at five eight, by the time she was a junior, last year, and now only participated in intramural gym events. Only last year her father had her lay out a semester and enrolled her in a full Spring semester in NOLS, the National Outdoor Leadership School in Lander, Wyoming, where she'd learned many valuable outdoor and survival skills, including rock climbing. It took her away from Brown and her many friends, but she excelled, not at free climbing, of course, as it was much too dangerous, but rope and piton. She'd also done lots of kayaking, and had become very proficient with the little boats, braving even some class 4 waters. So proficient she considered that as an Olympic alternative.

  On the ship they'd befriended a Slavic girl, Adrian Posivitch, who spoke passable Russian, and since she was traveling alone they took her under their wing. Adrian was attractive enough with high cheekbones and a thin, but nicely proportioned shape, with perky little boobs and a butt the boys could rest their beers on, so she certainly wouldn't distract from the voyage's main intent—boys. Of course the parents thought history and geography the main event. Adrian had made the visit to St. Petersburg lots more fun. So she was going into Tallinn with them as well, as almost half the Estonian population was either Russian or spoke Russian as their primary language.

  The cruise ship bus gave them the short ride to the ancient gates to the city, passing by a couple of exclusive hotels and some modern business buildings on the way, and they unloaded with giggles and anticipation, carrying beach style purses large enough to stuff with souvenirs—Tallinn was known for its amber and that, and boys, were on the top of their Estonia shopping list.

  They had a wonderful early lunch in a sidewalk café, visited a jewelry shop and all bought some amber earrings, then, as it was growing hot, looked for a place to cool down with a beer. To their surprise, Adrian said she knew the hottest place in town, and one that was very exciting as it was unlicensed, a sort of speakeasy, and full of handsome men.

  It was blocks from the main tourist area, and, walking, they had all worked up a thirst by the time they arrived. It was a bit dingy, but, yes, full of men. Some of them far too old and too rough look
ing for the girls rather refined Brown University metrosexual tastes, but almost as soon as they were seated, a tall, very handsome Estonian joined them at the table.

  "Ladies, I will bet you are American? I am Yegor, but you call me Yeggie," he said through a very black but very nicely trimmed beard. His smile was blinding with a mouth full of very straight, very white teeth, particularly when contrasted with his black beard and hair and ice blue eyes. "I vill buy your drinks to velcome you to my country," he said, his laugh almost as infectious as Coleen's.

  "That's okay," Betty Jean said, "we can buy our own."

  "No, no, I must insist," he said, and his blue eyes locked on hers and she melted a little. "Now, vat will you beautiful American ladies have?"

  "Beer,…you choose," Phyllis said, eyeing him up and down as he rose to go to the bar. He was very tall, lean, and attractive, and the best dressed man in the place with brown loafers, nicely creased khaki slacks, a leather belt matching the shoes, and a button-down brown and blue herringbone patterned shirt.

  They sat and talked with him for a while, gulping at first, then sipping the last half of their beers. He told them he was an engineer, only five years from university, although he looked a bit older than that.

  Betty Jean realized that Adrian wasn't drinking, and asked, "What's the matter, Adrian. You don't like the beer Yegor picked?"

  She smiled tightly. "I'm not feeling too well."

  "Me neither," Coleen said.

  "You candy's," Phillys said, and started to rise, then sat back down. "Hell, I'm a little dizzy myself." She lay her head in her arms.