Traynor turned his attention to their abandoned and disabled truck and saw one of the men sitting in it. He saw him slam his hands against the steering wheel and then get out and run to the front. He lifted the hood, looked at the motor, and slammed the hood back down. He ran for cover, yelling to his comrades. Traynor fired another burst of rounds—this time aiming at their vehicles. When he saw puffs of smoke, he knew they were returning fire, and soon he heard the angry snap of bullets flying past. Crouching down to make as small a target as possible, he ran after Manuel and Toledo. Dashing across the sandy ground, he kept his eyes on the trail of footprints.
As he ran, he hoped they had enough ammunition to engage in a running firefight for thirty miles.
No sight that human eyes can look upon is more provocative of awe than is the night sky scattered thick with stars.
—Llewelyn Powys
53
They traveled north as long as the light would allow. As the sun dropped below the peaks, the world seemed to turn purple as the waning daylight illuminated the sage. Although the valley was immersed in deepening shadows, the peaks of the mountains that surrounded them still basked in the setting sun. It was a sight worthy of a calendar picture.
“We’ll stop here for a couple of hours,” Manuel said.
“A couple of hours,” Toledo protested, “I cannot go on, especially in the dark.”
Manuel ignored him, but Traynor saw his shoulders tense. He, too, was tired of Toledo’s constant whining. “I think,” Traynor said, “that if I were you, I’d shut up before someone shut me up.”
Toledo looked at him and then flopped down on the sand. “I’m hungry.”
“No fire,” Manuel said.
Traynor dropped the pack that contained their supplies and grabbed a couple of energy bars, one of which he tossed at Toledo’s feet.
Toledo stared at the bar for a second and then at Traynor. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, Traynor cut him off. “You complain and I’ll take it back.”
“I am going to enjoy killing you,” Toledo said.
“Shut the fuck up. I’m tired of listening to you say that. You’re getting to be a bore,” Traynor countered.
Manuel chuckled and lay down using his pack as a pillow. “You know,” he said, “I think when we move out we’ll put both packs on ole Holy … let him be our pack mule.”
“That sounds like a plan to me. Why should we carry everything?”
Toledo did not look happy as he ripped open the energy bar with his teeth.
When Manuel warned them, “Check the ground for scorpions before you sit down,” Toledo jumped to his feet.
“Don’t worry,” Manuel assured him, “only the female is deadly.”
Still surveying the ground, Toledo said, “Who’s going to pick them up, look between their legs, and tell me when I’m in trouble?”
“Then,” Manuel continued, “there are the tarantulas and the fire ants.”
Even though Traynor did not show it, he was no happier to hear this than Toledo was.
The moonlight made the desert look silver. The brush and cactus cast menacing shadows, but there was ample light to see by. Manuel kicked the bottom of Toledo’s left foot until he woke up. “Time to get moving,” he said and walked away.
Before Toledo could whine about breakfast, Traynor said, “We’ll eat later.”
They pulled Toledo to his feet and checked that his handcuffs were still secure. Traynor inspected his wrists and saw that three days in shackles had rubbed the skin raw and his wrists were crusted with a ring of blood. “That must hurt,” he said with a broad smile.
Toledo mumbled something under his breath, and Traynor shoved him forward, slid his pack onto his back, and picked up his rifle. “Hey, Manuel, were you serious about using him as a pack mule?”
“Maybe later … when it gets really hot.”
“I can hardly wait,” Traynor answered.
Manuel turned and looked at Toledo. “Beware of the rattlesnakes. They like to lie on rocks because they hold the warmth of the sun.”
Toledo looked terrified as he searched the immediate area for serpents. “Is there anything in this godforsaken desert that won’t kill you?” he asked.
Traynor shivered in the night chill. For the first time he experienced the desert’s drastic contrast—blazing heat during the daylight hours and frigid temperatures at night. All day long Traynor had prayed for a break from the sun and heat, but now at three in the morning, he was wishing for daylight and some warmth. It was so cold that even Toledo’s mouth seemed to have frozen shut; either that or he was too occupied searching every rock and bush for a sidewinder poised to strike. Either way, Traynor thought it was better than his perpetual whining.
They walked until the sun crept over the peaks to their right. Cresting a small hill, Manuel immediately dropped onto his stomach. He motioned for them to do likewise and Traynor pushed Toledo onto his face. He urged the captive ahead of him until they had crawled beside Manuel. Venturing a look down the hill, Traynor saw what had alarmed Manuel.
One of the black SUVs was parked below them; an armed man sat on its hood, smoking a cigarette. “Looks as if I didn’t knock out all of their trucks,” Traynor whispered.
“I’d have been more surprised if you had,” Manuel replied.
“Now what?” Traynor asked.
“We try to work our way around them.”
They slid backward until they were below the crest of the hill and stood. Manuel hunched over and jogged toward the rising sun. Traynor grabbed Toledo by his shirt collar and whispered in his ear, “One peep out of you and I’ll kill you before they can locate us—you got that?” When he nodded, Traynor pushed him forward and followed Manuel.
A chance encounter between the undercover investigator and the suspect may occur on the spur of the moment or be a well-planned maneuver, either of which should appear to the suspect as a natural chain of events.
—FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations
54
After a three-hour flight, the Gulfstream G500 landed in Vancouver, British Columbia. McMahon was impressed by what he saw out the window as the plane dropped toward the runway. The fjords and the Rocky Mountains created a panoramic view that was breathtaking in its rustic beauty. Several bush planes equipped with pontoons raced through the harbor as they attained a speed suitable for takeoff.
McMahon had traveled light and was through customs in minutes. In less than an hour, he was in a rental car and driving toward the city.
As he drove, it became evident to him why the Vancouver area had become Hollywood North. The city offered a number of photogenic neighborhoods, from Gas town, which reminded him of an American street at the turn of the twentieth century, to a Chinatown that would rival any outside of China itself.
Then there was the seedier side of Vancouver. McMahon knew that the east side of the city was a mecca for sex workers. Prostitutes openly paraded up and down Seymour and East Hastings Streets, and drug addicts and the homeless lived in the empty buildings that lined the sidewalks. There had been a major cleanup attempt made when the 2010 Winter Olympics were held in the city, but once the heat was off, things returned to normal in short time.
McMahon followed the GPS as it led him along the Stanley Park Causeway into North Vancouver and then along Route 99. He followed the shore of Howe Sound for an hour until he came to Squamish. He cruised along the length of Cleveland Street, which was the main drag, looking for a restaurant or bar where he might tap into the local gossip. He narrowed his selection down to either the Dairy Queen or a restaurant called the Howe Sound Inn and Brewing Co. He opted for the inn.
A bar ran the length of the room and there were fifteen or twenty tables filling the rest of the space. Believing that he had a better chance of striking up a conversation at the bar, McMahon slid onto a stool. The bartender came over and asked, “What can I get yuh?”
“What’s a good local beer?”<
br />
“We brew our own, We call it Garibaldi Honey Pale Ale.”
“I’ll try one.”
“I hope you’re thirsty.”
The comment puzzled McMahon until the bartender placed a frosty one-liter bottle with a flip-top in front of him. “Most folks can’t drink it all at once,” the bartender commented. “The flip-top allows you to reseal it and take it with you.”
McMahon took a drink. The ale was cold and he found it bitterer than his palate was accustomed to. The server stood in front of him, a look of expectation on his face. “What you think?” he asked.
“Not bad, not bad at all.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
“I’m visiting from LA. Just got into town this morning. Maybe you can help me.”
“I can try.”
“My fiancée is here, making a movie with the famous director, Kondrat Jabłoński. I hoped that someone might know exactly where they’re shooting.”
“Only movie anyone’s making, that I know of, is back toward Vancouver. You come up ninety-nine?”
“I did.”
“Then you drove past it. It’s a house by itself, out on a point into the sound. Just look for a bunch of cars and trucks.”
“What does a bunch of trucks mean to you?” McMahon asked.
“Up here, anything more than two.” The bartender laughed and then walked down the bar.
McMahon retraced his route along Howe Sound. The scenery was breathtaking. It was early September in the low country, and the summits of the Canadian Rocky Mountains were snow-covered. The white peaks stood out in stark contrast to the crystal clear blue skies that seemed to rest atop them. He descended a long, winding slope and saw an impressive house perched on a point that jutted out into Howe Sound. The drive was filled with trucks, which made him certain that he had found the location of the movie shoot.
He parked on the shoulder along the highway and walked up the drive, hoping he could get close enough to the house to see what was going on—maybe even be able to identify some of the people. A security guard stopped him about a hundred yards short of the wide parking area. Several other people stood along the barriers, all of them rubbernecking in hope of spotting a celebrity. There was also the chance—albeit a remote one—that one or more of them would be selected as a walk-on. McMahon stood along the barrier close to the security guard, assuming she could be a useful source of information.
A tall, lanky man walked out of the house, apparently headed for one of several trailers that were sitting on the periphery of the set. “Who is that?” McMahon asked the guard. The woman turned and gave the man a cursory look. “Rock Stone,” she answered.
“I’ve never heard of him,” McMahon commented. “Is he one of the stars?”
“It doesn’t surprise me that you’ve never heard of him. He’s one of those Hollywood-types who think they’re a hell of a lot bigger than they are. If you bought him for what he is worth and then sold him for what he thinks he’s worth … you could retire to your own private island in the South Pacific.”
“He does look familiar, though.”
“Jabłoński has a stable of would-be stars who work cheap … I guess they find it better than working for a living. He casts them in most of his movies. Without him, they’d probably be living on the streets.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Now you take Stone, he’s the lousiest actor I ever saw. I think he has compromising pictures of Jabłoński … That’s the only reason I can think of for him being in every Jabłoński epic.”
McMahon wondered what Stone had done to earn the security guard’s disdain. He studied the actor, wondering if he had found Mindy Hollis’s costar. His reverie was broken when a white-haired man of medium build stormed out of the house with two people on his heels. One was an attractive woman.
“If it ain’t the great one himself,” the guard commented.
“Is he the star?”
“That’s Jabłoński.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“Abigail Allen, Jabłoński’s assistant. It looks like she’s gonna have to earn her money today—he’s pissed about something.”
“How can you tell?”
“Three, four times a day he storms out with his ass-kissers in tow. Notice how his face and neck are red? Whenever his face gets that red, you know he’s pissed.”
McMahon studied the renowned director and thought: He looks like a pimple that’s ready to pop. Jabłoński pointed at the observers gathered along the barriers and then stomped back inside the house. Abigail Allen, who had been silent throughout his harangue, walked off the deck and crossed the yard, stopping about ten feet short of the barrier. She scanned the people standing outside the perimeter, her gaze stopping on McMahon. She walked to him. “You interested in making a few quick bucks?” she asked him.
“Sure, why not.”
“What’s your name?” Allen asked.
Her question caught McMahon off guard and he said the first thing that came to mind, “Peter Puller.”
She looked at him for a few seconds. “You serious—Peter Puller?”
“Yeah. Believe me, I learned to fight at a young age.”
Allen said, “Well, your name won’t appear on the credits anyhow, and if it does, no one will stay around long enough to read them.” She said to the guard, “Let him in.” She turned on her heel and took several paces, then stopped. She looked over her shoulder at him and said, “What are you waiting for? Follow me.”
Her tone was sharp and authoritative; obviously she was used to having her orders obeyed without question. He fought back his resentment over her abrupt manner and moved quickly in order to walk beside her. “What,” he asked, “do I have to do?”
“Play dead.”
“I can handle that.”
Jabłoński met McMahon and the woman when they were halfway across the parking lot. In the murky light of the approaching sunset, it was difficult to make out his features. But his heavily accented English left no doubt about his Polish heritage. “Who is this?” he demanded.
“Our corpse,” the woman replied.
Jabłoński stepped back and studied McMahon as if he were lining him up in the reticule of a camera. “Tak. We will shoot his scene first thing in the morning.” Without saying anything further, he spun on his heel and stormed back toward the house.
McMahon looked at the woman. “Tak?”
“Polish for yes. You just passed your screen test.”
“Must be a major part.”
“Be hard to have a murder mystery without a murder, now wouldn’t it?” She appraised him for a few seconds. “All you got to do is lie in a pool of fake blood and look murdered … I think that even you can handle that.”
“Probably, I have some experience—”
“With what … being murdered?” She cast him a wary eye and added, “Or murdering?”
“Neither. I was a cop for three years—I’ve seen more than my share of murder vics.”
“Hmmm”—she gave him another appraising look—“maybe Kondrat should consider you for Rock’s role.”
McMahon decided to act as if he had no idea who she alluded to. “Who’s Rock?”
“The supposed star.”
“Oh, him. I think I saw him in a movie once … wasn’t a very good movie.”
“Rock’s not a very good actor,” she said, with animosity. “Maybe you aren’t just a handsome hunk after all.”
“Why does Jabłoński keep using him?”
“If you find out, tell me, okay?” She gave him a catty smile. “Come on, I’ll show you to the trailer where you can sleep tonight.”
…targets are engaged as soon as they are detected.
—STP 21-1-SMCT, Soldier’s Manual of Common Tasks
55
They crept through the early-morning light, trying to circumvent the lookout sitting on the hood of the truck. To ensure that Toledo kept his mouth shut, Traynor periodically
nudged him with the muzzle of his rifle. During their sojourn together, Traynor had come to believe that Toledo was not the brightest crayon in the box, but he seemed to get the message.
They had not crept more than a hundred feet when Toledo tripped over a rock and fell with a loud thud. In seconds, Traynor heard voices speaking in Spanish and knew that somebody would be coming to discover the source of the noise. Manuel turned and said, “Take him and head north. I’ll catch up with you once I’ve taken care of things here.” He immediately ran to the top of the rise and dropped onto his stomach. He aimed his rifle at something on the other side and fired. He must have scored, because Traynor heard a grunt, followed by more excited Spanish. He grabbed a handful of Toledo’s shirt and pulled him to his feet. “For your sake, I hope that fall was an accident,” he snarled.
Toledo’s eyes shone white in the approaching dawn and it was evident that he was scared out of his senses. Traynor pushed him forward and warned him, “All I need is one reason …” He led Toledo through the scrub brush and cactus, keeping the slit of light that split the angry red sky above the eastern horizon to their right. Another shot, followed by an answering shot, broke the morning stillness.
“Your amigo will be killed,” Toledo said.
“For both of our sakes, you better hope he isn’t.”
“I will pay you more than you ever dreamed of making—”
Traynor cut him off. “That hasn’t worked yet, so shut up about it.” He pushed him forward and said, “Run.”
Several more shots rang out and it seemed to add impetus to Toledo’s awkward gait. Traynor knew running while his hands were handcuffed in front of him was not easy, but he showed Toledo no mercy and pushed him to run faster.
The soft, sandy, soil was anything but conducive to a sprint. It did not take long for the effects of the past few days to catch up with Traynor. He was soaked with sweat and his breathing became labored. He knew that Toledo was in no better shape and that they both needed a break. He motioned for Toledo to stop by a large patch of bushes and they dropped to the ground without worrying about snakes or scorpions. Traynor inhaled deeply and almost had a heart attack when Manuel appeared like an apparition.
Black Orchid Page 21
