The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  He comes up next to me and reaches across the bar, trying to get hands on the redhead.

  She screams a squeak and, unable to reach her, he puts hands on the bar and starts to vault it.

  I can't miss the opportunity to knock his arm next to me away, put that arm into a hammer lock behind his back, and collapse him to his face on the hardwood. His face bounces and I take my other hand and bang him down face-first again, hard on the bar. He comes up with eyes spinning, nose spouting blood, and I let him go and he windmills back into the table holding the other two.

  The first rule of being a good bar or alley brawler is to not give a damn if you get hit—in fact getting hit should be like a squeeze on your adrenalin gland and put you in high gear. The taste of blood, to a good scraper, is like a shot of go-juice. With my eyes on the loud-mouth, I miss the fact the scarecrow has gathered up an empty beer bottle from a nearby table, and chucked it like a fast ball. His aim is good and it whacks me in the mouth and I taste blood.

  Mistake, asshole.

  3

  He charges behind the chucked beer bottle and I kick a chair in front of him, tangling him up and he falls forward, saving my knuckles as my knee works, and he, too, hits the floor with a nose like a fire hose.

  Two busted noses, no busted knuckles. Not a bad start. Had the prick broke my tooth I'd kick him into the next decade but I can live with a busted lip.

  The stubby one is backing up, hands up palms out. Obviously not wanting any of it. But loud mouth is back on his feet and I see the glint of a blade in his hand. This kicks the threat, and the reprisal, up to a whole new level. We begin to circle each other, and when his back is to the bar, one of the grizzled old cowhands puts a full long neck to good use and breaks it over loud mouth's head. The reversed bill cap offers little protection as the bottle smashes. He goes to his knees, then to his face, unmoving.

  I turn to the gentleman cowhand. "Obliged, sir."

  "Never liked the worthless knife-pulling prick no how," he says. He turns back to the barmaid. "Virginia, how about another beer? Seems I spilt that'a one."

  "My pleasure, Seth," she says. "But first I'm gonna call Barnaby and get him hauled out of here."

  "How about I buy you two a beer," I ask.

  "I got it, with pleasure," Virginia says.

  So I ask, "Barnaby is the sheriff?"

  "Deputy," she says, and bats the emeralds at me.

  "Then if y'all don't mind. I'll take my leave."

  "Don't mind a bit. We'll tell Barnaby he got hit by a truck."

  "Sounds right. A Pabst-Blue-Ribbon eighteen wheeler."

  That gets a chuckle out of the cowhands.

  I head for the door, and she calls out behind me, "If you're not leaving town, and can get the bleeding stopped, I'm off at ten."

  I stop and turn back, weighing the invite, and mopping the blood off my lips. "Very good chance I'll be back for another tall cold one," then I move on out, mount up, and head back to Cedar City.

  I'm a little surprised when I pull up to my van in the Walmart parking lot and my buddy Pax is parked next to it, his feet up on the dash of his new deep blue Dodge Charger. He's reading a Wilber Smith novel.

  I idle up between the van and his ride and he looks over and yells, "Don't scratch this paint, or I'll have to whip your ass...but then it looks like someone's already done so."

  "You otta see the other guy," I shout over the Harley, then kill it. "So, anything new?"

  "Yep, seems like you're in demand. You remember General Tobias Peabody?"

  "Peabody. Sure. He was a paper pusher as Marines go, but a decent guy who treated us great. He pinned some stuff on my chest."

  "All this b.s. with the Army Intel assholes is because he and some brass from the Army want you front and center, and not to hang you out to dry. I'm assured it's just because somebody wants your help. Maxwell, the lead guy from Army, says the warrant was just to get everyone high behind to find you."

  "Do they know where you are?" I ask, looking back over my shoulder.

  "They claimed they wouldn't track me, but you know how the pricks lie."

  "Tell them to drop the warrant, work it out with Furenstein, and I'll come in to have a chat with them. That's drop it against me and the rest of the guys."

  Just as I finish the sentence, the screech of tires screams at us from both behind and in the lane in front of us.

  "Good job, asshole," I chide Pax.

  "Like I said, they lie."

  In seconds we have a half dozen guys both front and behind, but as serious as they look, they haven't filled their hands.

  "You lying fuck," Pax says to the guy who's in the lead.

  "This is a critical mission and top secret, so I had no choice," the guy snaps.

  "Mike, say hello to Major Thomas Maxwell, United States Army Intel."

  I don't bother with the niceties. "Major, you'd never have found me without the help of Weatherwax."

  "I don’t give a rat's ass, pardner. I have you now. Stand by," he pulls a phone out of his suit pocket and hits the redial. "General, here's your guy." And hands me the cell phone.

  "Yes, sir," I say.

  "Reardon, General Peabody here. You may not remember but we met in Iraq."

  "I remember well, General. What can I do for you?"

  "We have a big problem I can't discuss on the phone. I have your old Commander here and I'm handing the phone over."

  "Mike," and I recognize Commander Thomas Scroder's voice. Now a private contractor for whom we just worked for in Afghanistan. "We've got another gig for you and your boys."

  "What's with the warrant, Commander. How about a simple phone call? You had me on the run."

  "I wasn't onboard until this morning. The Army called me in and I told them they'd screwed the pooch and would likely drive you so far underground it would take a two thousand pound bunker bomb to get you up...but it was after the fact. The warrant is shelved as of now. It seems your reputation has proceeded you and you're now the go-to guy to mop up messes."

  "Shelved?"

  "Yes. There's a ride waiting for you at the Cedar City airport. See you in a few hours."

  "I'm bringing Weatherwax with me."

  "Good. He's the brains of the outfit and might just keep you straight. Hotfoot it to the plane. While you're moving this way, see if you can line up at least three more guys."

  "At your request and word only, otherwise there would be a shit-storm here."

  I can hear the major harrumph, but ignore him as I hang up. "I'm going to load my bike in the van and you're going to have someone deliver it back to Weatherwax Internet Services. Got it?"

  "You're an arrogant son-of-a-bitch."

  "I know that. You got it?"

  "I don't give a shit if they impound your rig—"

  "Okay, I'll give Peabody a call and see if he gives a shit." I turn to Pax. "Can you trust one of these dip shits to drive your Charger back?"

  "No choice, if I'm going for a ride. By the way, where are we going?"

  "I imagine the pilot knows."

  "Let's hope so," Pax says, and throws his Charger's keys to the major.

  The major turns to one of his guys, "Horrigan, can you drive this piece of crap." The young Army intel guy can't keep the grin off his face.

  Pax helps me load the bike and I grab my big bug out bag from the back of the van before I toss the keys to Horrigan who hands them to one of his cohorts.

  "Let's head for our ride," I snap at the major and get a sour look in return, but he waves us to a big black Ford Explorer and Pax and I climb in the back as the major takes the suicide seat. Then I turn to Pax and can't help but say, loud enough that the major can overhear. "I hope it's a Navy pilot and not some Army puke."

  The major doesn't bother to turn around, but gives me the finger as we roar off.

  And we're off to God knows where.

  4

  It had been hours and darkness had come and gone and was on its way again.

&nbs
p; It seemed they were driving in circles and had stopped twice to eat, with one of them always staying in the back of the van. One of the drivers, whose name was Vadim, was particularly repulsive, short and stocky, with spike hair, a bulldog face and neck, fingers and teeth stained by nicotine. With breath that would melt bullets, he spoke almost no English. While the others went to eat and he stood guard, he seemed to get off by reaching out and pinching the nipples of the girls, then laughing and spewing spittle over them.

  He was a true pig.

  B.J. managed to sleep some of the way, even though Coleen was crying most of the time, and not quietly until Yegor slapped her so hard her eyes spun. Then she merely trembled and shook, but was silent. Phyllis prayed, mumbling under her breath until Yegor threatened to slap her silly.

  B.J. finally awoke to the screech of brakes and the van leaning as it sped around the corner.

  Her thirteen inch MacBook had been in her large beach bag and now she gritted her teeth to see Yegor messing with it.

  "That's personal," she said, but gave him another phony smile.

  "Yes," he said, smiling back, but with lips as tight as a snake. "It is now my personal computer, my P.C."

  "It's not a P.C., it's a Mac, estupido."

  "I am Yegor." Then he seemed to realize she may have used some kind of invective. "What is this you have called me?"

  "Estupido. That means handsome in pig Latin."

  "What is this pig Latin?"

  "It's kind of like Spanish. Latin, you know. Like latino."

  "Oh."

  She shrugged, sitting up and backing against the side of the van, which lurched badly making her bump her head.

  "Ow," she said. "Can't those assholes drive?"

  "It is a very rough road," Yegor said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

  She turned her attention to the other girls, both awake, both still wide eyed. "You okay, Coleen?" Coleen looked as white as a sheet, even in the darkness of the van.

  "No," she said, her lip trembling.

  B.J. smiled at her. "We're fine. A bit of a rough ride and my wrists hurt, but it could be a lot worse."

  "You say," Coleen mumbled.

  So B.J. turned her attention to Phyllis. "Phil, how you doing?"

  "They wouldn't stop and I peed my pants. It's not very comfortable."

  "You peed your pants a thousand times when you were a baby. You'll be fine. Use your heads, ladies."

  "It's your fault," Coleen said, her lip now curling, not trembling.

  "Oh," B.J. said, a little defensively, "…as I remember it was Adrian who took us to that club."

  "Yes, and they paid her, and if you'll notice, she's not along for the ride."

  B.J. thought for a moment, then mumbled. "So, this was planned. That bitch. She offered us up like pigs to slaughter."

  Yegor moved closer and drew back a foot, threatening another kick. "All you shut up. We are almost there and Alexei will beat you badly if you say a word. Do not say one word when we go into the dacha."

  "Whatever," B.J. said, and shrugged. "We were due back on the ship and I'm sure we're missed by now. They'll have half the country looking for us…and when my father finds out, it'll be half the world."

  Yegor laughed, then growled as he spoke, "Your father has already found out."

  The plane is U. S. Air Force, probably impounded from some international dope dealer and turned over the USAF pukes for brass travel. It's been repainted dark flag blue but the inside is all gray kid leather and some African wood that's almost black. Pax and I both whistle low with admiration as a captain awaits us at the top of the ladder, if you can call the elegant gangway into a G5 a ladder. We're alone among sixteen seats and plop down across the aisle from one another in seats with small tables in front.

  "Captain," I give him a two-finger salute.

  "Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. Sorry we have no steward on this flight. We were diverted on a flight from Vandenberg to Ronald Reagan to pick y'all up."

  "Texas or Louisiana," I ask.

  "Mobile, Alabama, sir," he replies.

  "So, it's D.C.?"

  "We're instructed not to engage in unnecessary conversation, sir. There're cold drinks in the small fridge and probably some crackers or such. Make yourselves comfortable."

  As soon as we're airborne, Pax heads to the galley and I can hear his guffaw. "Cold drinks, hell, there's ice, good Scotch, and a bottle of Black Bush."

  "I'm good," I yell back to him. "I may need my wits about me."

  "How about a half a drink as you're a halfwit?" he chides.

  "Chuck you, Farley. I'm gonna take a nap." And I lay the seat back and am surprised when it damn near goes to level.

  I can hear the ice cubes rattle as he returns to the seat across the aisle. "You're getting old, Reardon," he grumbles. "I hate drinking alone."

  "Yeah, I'm gonna turn forty some day, with luck. And I'd like to make it. Shut your pie hole so I can get some zees."

  "Who are you bullshitting? You forget old Pax was at your last ten birthday bashes."

  I, surprisingly sleep, then awake as the wheels thump down and lock into place. After we make two hard turns I know we're on the goofy approach to Ronald Reagan. We've been flying against the sun—moon mostly—and as we taxi up to a plain gray unmarked hanger, I can see that we've been flying long enough that the sun is just beginning to lighten the sky to the east.

  "Hope you enjoyed the flight," the captain says as he walks back our way from the cockpit before the plane has finished its roll out.

  "Where to now?" I ask, and poke Pax on the shoulder. He's asleep without dropping the seat back and he awakens, startled.

  "Damn," he says, rubbing his eyes. "We in Kansas yet, Toto?"

  "Let's unload and see what the big mystery is," I say, and head for the ladder the captain is attending. "Nice flight, captain." He drops the ladder the instant the plane settles back from the co-pilot braking it to a stand-still.

  "The black four door across the tarmac is waiting for you."

  I again give him a two-finger salute, and head down and across the blacktop. A corporal, who fills her uniform nicely, has a back door open in perfect limo driver fashion. Even in the semi-light I can see that Pax is going to want to climb in the front seat beside her.

  "Gentlemen," she says. "We'll be just a few minutes."

  "To?"

  "Buckle up, please," she instructs as Pax and I climb on the black leather upholstery.

  "What's your name, hon?" Pax calls out.

  She looks over the seat back, smiles, and says, "Corporal."

  "Okay, Corporal it is," Pax says, and shrugs his shoulders with a win-some-lose-some look at me.

  I've been around D.C. enough to recognize the Department of State and we head down a dark ramp into that building's garage. It’s only a block from the Vietnam Memorial, which I’ve visited to find the names of a couple of relatives and some of my dad’s friends.

  "State Department?" Pax asks.

  "Yeah, better than Leavenworth."

  "Maybe," he says and I wonder if he could be right.

  She parks deep in the bowels of the building and leads the way without a word, stops on the ground floor and we find a small office with a one-way glass that looks out onto the building's large foyer. A uniformed Marine warrant officer stationed there hands us a clipboard and we sign in. I'm eyeballing the guy, wondering if we've served together somewhere, but decide small talk is not appropriate.

  With visitor badges on Pax's nylon windbreaker and my leather jacket, we follow her into an elevator and watch as she slips some kind of I.D. card into a slot and only then does the box begin to move. I'm a little surprised when we exit onto a fully lighted floor and folks are hard at work in many of the offices.

  A portion of the building is devoted to the reception of visiting dignitaries and you can visit those rooms, after an extensive background check. They’re full of antiques and are one of America’s showplaces…or maybe I should s
ay, showing-off places.

  She leads us down a long hallway to a door with mantles on either side, half Greek columns, and we enter a boardroom with more thick upholstered chairs than the G5 carried...and a dozen folks await. Not a dignitary reception room, but not bad. A uniformed Marine corporal is at parade rest beside the door we enter.

  Commander Scroder rises and walks over to meet us, and I can see that General Peabody is in a seat facing us. He's a little more gray than I remember, the pouches under his eyes are deeper, as are the ravines that crisscross his sun—or maybe age—spotted cheeks.

  "Take the head of the table, fellas," Peabody says, and we do, one of us on either side leaving the actual head vacant. When we're seated, Peabody clears his throat. "Before we begin—"

  And I interrupt him. "Before we begin, how about we get a pot of coffee in here. We need to clear the cobwebs from flying all night."

  "Coffees on the sideboard there. Sorry, I should have.... Help yourselves." Then he turns to the corporal. "Maxwell, tell the orderly at the desk near the elevators to get us a plate of donuts or hot rolls or some damn thing."

  And Pax and I are back in our seats, but this time with steaming cups of decent coffee in front of us.

  "Now," Peabody continues. "Let's get the introductions out of the way. To my right here is Undersecretary Allan Rogers, on his right is Fremont McAbee who's on the Estonia desk here at state. To his right is his first assistant, Melane...Hotchkist, isn't it?"

  "Hodgekins, sir," she corrects.

  "Sorry, and across from me in plain clothes is Brigadier General Matthew Allenby from NATO, next to him is his adjutant Major Tommy Two Horses—"

  "Wyoming?" I ask.

  "Close, South Dakota," he says, and he looks like a Sioux.

  I give him a nod and the General continues.

  "Howard Micklavich is from the Russian Section here at State. Next to him is Natele Jordovik, from the company."

  "C.I.A.?" Pax asks, and looking at Natele I can see why he wants more detail. I'd guess her to be Russian and speaking that language to be her speciality. Tall, blond hair short and combed in a nineteen sixties ducktail, sharp features and a body that even the practical business suit she wears can't disguise.