Shotgun Mine

by Jim Heskett

  Several eyebrows raise, a few jaws drop. Layne doesn’t care about the gawking… that’s the cost of doing business when you marry a woman who looks like that.

  He’s grateful, for the moment, that Daphne Kurek hasn’t been around today. After he completed his assignment to kill the human trafficker, she kept to her word and left town. He hasn’t rested, though, and he’s kept a lookout for her in his peripheral vision all day. Worrying about a surprise appearance from Daphne hasn’t ruined his trip, but it has put limits on his capacity to enjoy it.

  It would have been within her character to stand somewhere near the back, smirking during the ceremony. That smirk can communicate so many things, but Layne knows what a Daphne smirk today would mean: sure, you can marry her, but you’ll always belong to me. I’ve known you longer. And loved you for longer. I’ve shared your bed more times that she has.

  But, at least this time, Daphne has let him have this experience all to himself. As far as he can tell, there will be no last minute interruptions to the wedding. And thank God for that. He might never forgive Daphne if she actually does manage to spoil this day for him.

  The flower girl precedes Inessa, flinging rose petals from a wicker basket as she giggles. A moment later, his bride walks down the aisle after her, with a grand train behind her held up by two women in burgundy dresses.

  As his heart pumps, his temple aches from where the suitcase smacked him in the head yesterday. But even that doesn’t distract him from the moment.

  What actually does distract him is when Layne’s eyes fall to his side of the wedding guest collective, specifically on the chair left vacant for George Parrish. Layne understands his father isn’t coming. Layne understands George Parrish is back in rinky-dink Shotgun, probably sipping a glass of brown liquid by himself and complaining about the government to a squirrel in the backyard.

  George Parrish doesn’t give a shit about Layne. He doesn’t give a shit about his happiness. George Parrish has never done anything for anyone else in his entire life. And he’ll never meet Layne’s bride, nor will he meet Layne and Inessa’s children. That feels like both justice and a stab in the chest, but it’s the bed George made.

  And Layne realizes it’s okay. He realizes now, in his mid-thirties, that he’s finally an adult. Whatever mentoring or advice his father could’ve provided is no longer necessary. He doesn’t need to hold out hope that George will come around. Never again.

  Inessa joins him on the dais and they face each other, standing perpendicular to the officiant. Blistering smiles across both of their faces. This is it. It’s really happening. In a few minutes, he will be married and his life will never be the same again.

  And he’s ready. He’s ready to launch the next chapter of his life.

  Layne takes her hands and looks deep into her eyes.

  He’s ready to start the future now.

  40

  Layne stared at Molly Waffles across the room. The slim light of the glow sticks hid her expression in shadows. Layne kept his eyes pointed toward her so he wouldn’t see the carnage to his right. His father and a stray lion, both dead on the rocky ground. The old man had sacrificed himself.

  His father had given his own life so they could have time.

  Extra time. Time not to get eaten. Time to escape, or aim properly, or time to wait and watch an old man die. Extra time. Time to watch a surly and wrinkled bastard who had never expressed an interest in any selfless act ever before. The man who had—according to Layne’s mother—never changed a diaper in his life.

  That man had willingly let himself die so they could live. Layne still couldn’t wrap his mind around what his father had done.

  “Hey,” she said, her sharp tone cutting through the sea of thoughts in his head. “I know this is terrible after what just happened, but we need to move. We need to find what we came for and get back to town. Come see what’s on the other side of this hole.”

  Layne cleared his throat and holstered his pistols. He crossed the space to see where Molly had rolled away the mine cart to reveal a hole in the wall. But not a little hidey-hole, as George had said. This was an entire other room, with light bulbs anchored to the ceiling, with metal tables holding boxes and crates of different sizes and shapes.

  Molly shined a flashlight as she pointed to a row of boxes labeled on the outside. Pseudoephedrine, acetone, iodine. Common ingredients in different formulations of methamphetamine.

  “All this trouble just to cook speed,” Layne said.

  She stood next to him and put a hand on his back, rubbing in little circles. Her touch didn’t carry the same weight as it had in high school, but Layne appreciated the human connection, at least. So much felt muddled in his brain right now.

  “I had an ex whose brother did a little time for meth cooking,” Molly said. “It’s insanely profitable, so it’s a good way to build up capital really fast, with enough scale.”

  Layne nodded. That had been his assumption, too. Then his eyes landed on a cube sitting alone on a table. It was a small metal box with rounded corners and a rusty handle on top, like the kind people used for cash banks at garage sales.

  He approached it and flipped the lid. Inside sat only one object: a key.

  So, George hadn’t been lying. As he’d promised, he’d taken them right to the key. But a key to what?

  He angled toward Molly and held it up. She shined her light on it. It was a small thing, seemingly the correct size to secure a lock on a bike or toolbox sitting in the back of a truck.

  “That’s it, huh?” Molly said.

  “This is it. The key to Shotgun Mine, whatever the hell that is.”

  “Who do you think put that here?”

  His gaze fell down to his father, lying in a spreading pool of his own blood. “Maybe he did. Maybe he was hiding it from them.”

  Molly ran a hand through her short hair, shucking mine dust out. “The why doesn’t matter much at the moment, does it? Unless we figure out the what, then the rest of it doesn’t matter.”

  “True.”

  “I’m sorry, Layne, but we should go.”

  Layne agreed, so they hustled back toward the stairs. He knew he would have to come back for his father later, because the man deserved to be buried in the family plot. Layne wouldn’t let his father’s story end as food for furry cave scavengers.

  But not right now.

  Carefully, they ascended the spiral staircase and then made their way back through the tunnels, working up to the top level. Each step had to be scrutinized, weighing safety against urgency. But, as much as it pained Layne to admit it, they made better time without an elderly stroke victim in tow.

  Why had George been so insistent he come along? Layne remembered the smile on the man’s face when they’d descended into the large room. Had George wanted one last return trip to his youth before the clock ran out?

  Ten minutes later, Layne and Molly reached the lip of the exit. He hoisted her up, then she leaned over and held her pincher arm below. Layne grasped it and she pulled him to the ledge.

  For a moment, watching her teeth grit as she labored to hold his bulk, he forgot all about George and marveled at how much Molly Waffles had changed. From a petite thing who giggled at all of Layne’s jokes to a badass one-armed gun range owner. For as shocking her change had been to Layne, he appreciated the support over the last few days. He reminded himself to find a way to express his gratitude before he left town.

  If he and Molly survived.

  Once out into the night air, Layne felt goosebumps dotting the back of his neck. The mine shafts had been a constant temp, and the real world felt cold and wet. An onslaught of snow still tumbled from the sky.

  He looked down at the town, and it seemed no different. Same number of late-evening lights. There were no white slashes of gunfire, no fire, no explosions. Everything looked like a normal snowy night in the tiny town.

  “Fire in the hole,” Molly said, and Layne whipped around. She drew a grenade from her bac
kpack, jerked the pin, and tossed it down into the mine entrance. She and Layne backed up, hustling out of the way.

  The grenade exploded. The ground shook, not quite like an earthquake aftershock, but he could definitely feel it. A small spray of rocks and rock particles flew out of the hole, but nothing dangerous. Pebbles landed around Layne’s feet like splashes from a puddle.

  “They’re not going to use that mine for anything, now,” she said. A moment later, she spread a flat smile. “I’ve been waiting years for someone to do what I just did.”

  Yes, she’d sealed off the mine to the Disciples, but she had also sealed in George Parrish’s body. Layne opened his mouth to remind her of that fact, but then he stopped and considered. Not a single deceased member of the Parrish family was buried in the Parrish family plot. Maybe forever resting in the mine had been the right decision, and one Layne had needed made for him.

  Right now, discussion about his father’s final resting place could wait.

  Layne needed to call Harry to get an update. But, something interrupted his train of thought. Headlights.

  He put a hand on one of his SIG Sauers when a vehicle slowed and pulled into the parking area near them. Layne took a few steps over toward Molly’s car, using it as a shield.

  The new truck parked, and the driver door opened.

  “Molly,” Layne said, warning her to seek cover. She pulled near him, hunkering low to use the truck’s front as cover.

  “Wait. I know that car,” she said, rising to her full height.

  Actually, Layne did, too.

  Paul Clausing stepped out of the truck, gawking at the collapsed mine entrance. This was the same man who had engaged in a drunken fist fight with Layne three days ago. Layne had broken his finger, and they had tussled again the next morning. Not a pleasant reunion, but Paul didn’t look like he’d come here for fisticuffs. His eyes were wide, gawking at the collapsed East Mine entrance.

  “Was there an explosion in the mine just now?” Paul asked.

  “I thought you went to Denver,” Layne said.

  Paul held up his hand, still bandaged. “I tried. But, I told you, they weren’t going to put me on with a broken hand. What happened here? Is everyone okay?”

  “We’re fine,” Layne said. “What’s Shotgun Mine?”

  “I told you the other day: I have no idea. I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now.”

  This man used to run Oklahoma drills with Layne on the practice field. They used to be almost friends. Out of answers and out of time, Layne decided he had no choice but to trust his former football teammate.

  “We found a key.”

  Molly Waffles eyed him, but she didn’t protest.

  “A key?” Paul asked. “A key for what?”

  Layne drew it from his pocket and crossed the space between them. Paul squinted and held out a hand. As he touched it, his face changed.

  “Oh, this key? Yeah, I know exactly what this opens.”

  41

  A few minutes before, while Layne was still working his way out of East Mine, Harry raised a fist in the air in tentative triumph. Sitting at the desk in his home office, he put the finishing touches on the code to break the internal security cameras. Everything looked ready to go.

  He’d been monitoring the external feeds for about a half hour, but hadn’t yet been able to hack into the more-secure buildings’ internal cameras. He also hadn’t been able to activate the drones with their sedative darts. First step, he needed total building access to figure out why. And, to do that, Harry needed access to surveillance and building ops, which is why he’d been working as fast as possible for the last thirty minutes.

  Now, time to turn the key and see if the engine would start.

  Harry hit the Enter key and sat back. He set the bowl of potato chips on his belly and watched the progress meter crawl across the screen. It ticked from left to right, filling up the white horizontal bar with segments of green, from 0% to 3% after ten seconds of waiting. This might take a minute or two.

  A knock came at his office door. Harry put the chips back on the table so he wouldn’t look like such a slob. There were only two people in the world who could be standing outside his door, but he still felt self-conscious.

  “Come in,” he said, wiping crumbs from his mouth.

  The door opened as a soft and round face appeared in the crack to smile at him. “Dinner’s ready,” his wife said.

  “Going to be a little late. I’m sorry, honey, this is work stuff.”

  “Layne?”

  Harry nodded. Even though Layne and Harry didn’t technically work together any longer, he still considered it his duty to help his former teammate whenever he had a chance. “He needs my help.”

  “I know, dear,” she said, and tossed in a wink. “Don’t wait too long. I know how you are about potatoes when they’ve been reheated.”

  “I read you loud and clear. Just need a few more minutes.” He blew her a kiss, and she replied with a wink before shutting the door. Harry tabbed over to the external security feeds for another cat head count while he waited for his program to finish running.

  “Oh, shit,” he said as his mouth dropped open. Before, Harry had felt confident that the open gate led to two cat enclosures, as he had only seen one lion and one tiger wandering about.

  But now, he saw half a dozen meandering through the sanctuary’s snowy parking lot. He’d misjudged the layout of the sanctuary. These cats had probably been waiting around inside their opened enclosures to make sure it was safe to leave. Now, they’d decided to execute that plan, and Harry’s management of the situation had spun out of control.

  Harry hit the redial button on his phone to call Layne back, but it went straight to voicemail. He tried one more time and had the same result.

  “Shit, shit, shit.”

  Another knock came at his door. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine, honey. Please put my food in the fridge. I may be in here a while, soggy potatoes or no.”

  She said she would and then she vanished, so Harry rubbed his eyes and heaved a few deep breaths to center himself. He needed to be present. He needed to send several messages as quickly as possible.

  First, he sent urgent emails to contacts he knew at the FBI, as well as Fish and Wildlife. They should have done so hours or days ago, but Layne hadn’t wanted to bring in law enforcement until he knew more about the situation.

  Well, they were beyond that now. Since he had been unable to reach Layne, Harry had made a command decision. It had to be done.

  He next looked up info for the mayor and sheriff of Shotgun, and he called mayor Winnie Caldwell first, then Sheriff Bob Jenkowski. But the call to city hall went to voicemail, and the call to Jenkowski rang and rang.

  Eventually, Harry gave up and dragged aching hands down his face. He stood and made a lap around the room, rolling his head around his neck.

  “Think, Boukadakis.”

  The computer screen flashed, and he zipped back over to his desk. The code from his hacking program had reached 100%. And then his cursor appeared at the bottom, blinking. No error messages.

  It had worked.

  Harry raised a fist to the air again and barked a victorious laugh. But he had no time to celebrate. He typed in a command to access the index of feeds. White text spilled along the black screen. Next, he accessed the first video feed, into the lobby.

  And he saw the first human he’d seen. A woman, between thirty and forty, with dark skin and an expensive outfit. She was sitting on the lobby floor, head in her hands. Shoulders wriggling. She looked up briefly, mascara dripping down her cheeks. She’d been crying.

  Harry snapped a screenshot when her face pointed toward the camera. The woman seemed familiar. He tabbed to a new browser and looked up Shotgun’s government page. There he found her, Winnie Caldwell, the town’s mayor. Actually, the very same woman he’d tried to call two minutes ago at city hall. Clearly, she wasn’t there.

  Why was she at the BCS?
What was she doing there?

  Harry sat back and tapped a finger against his chin a few times. Then, an idea struck.

  42

  Layne held out the key, and Paul nodded at it. “I know exactly what that key opens.”

  “What?” Layne asked, standing under the falling snow outside the recently collapsed East Mine. Molly Waffles stood with her hand and pincher claw on hips, waiting for Paul to explain.

  Layne studied the little hunk of metal in his hand as flakes of snow landed in his palm and then quickly melted into mini-puddles.

  “You said you didn’t know what Shotgun Mine is,” Layne said.

  Paul nodded. “I’ve never heard of that place before, but I know that key. That specific key. There’s a cellar in the shed behind your house, Layne.”

  “My house?”

  “I mean, your dad’s house. The cabin. There’s a shed behind your cabin, right, backing up into the hill?”

  “Yes, but as far as I know, that shed has been junk storage for thirty years. Never once did he treat that hunk of rotting wood as something special.”

  “Maybe so, but I think it’s what you’re looking for.”

  Layne checked with Molly, and she seemed as confused as he was. “There’s a cellar in the shed? Since when?”

  Paul shrugged. “No idea. I didn’t know until a few months ago. His knees were bothering him too much to walk, and so I escorted him across the yard. He said he was going to unlock the cellar one last time because it was getting too dangerous.”

  “Too dangerous?”

  “Yeah. The Disciples were looking for it. But whatever it was, he was all excited to see it. He wouldn’t let me in, but it was definitely the same key. I saw him go into his shed without it, then he came out holding it, so I don’t know how much clearer the answer could be. What you’re looking for is right behind your house.”

  Layne stared at the hunk of metal in his hand. “He knew the whole time?”

  Paul shrugged again. “Maybe. Your dad has been declining rapidly. Maybe he forgot. You must’ve seen how barely-there he’s been. He sometimes can’t remember his own name. Shit, he used to call me ‘Randall’ all the time, but I mostly ignored it. Ask Keegan. He had to help George get back home about a year ago when he got confused and was wandering around downtown.”