by Ninie Hammon
He needed light, not to find his way in but to direct him back out again. The light switches were in a locked breaker box on a pole out front — and W. Maxwell Crenshaw hadn't provided him a key. But if his memory served him, there was a second set of switches that turned on only the one bank of lights set just inside the mine entrance. That set of switches was on the first coal pillar on Main Street right above where the conveyer belt dumped its load of coal from the face.
Leaving the Jeep lights shining on dark shafts at the mine entrance, T.J. jumped out of the vehicle, grabbed his weapons and raced toward the end of the belt line. When he flipped the switches there, the whole front portion of the mine leapt out of the darkness. He ran to the nearest mantrip, searched around on it, couldn't find what he was looking for and ran to another mantrip sitting in the mouth of the Boardwalk shaft. There! A helmet with a headlamp.
It was a red helmet, and that was appropriate because T.J. fully intended to be a red-hat miner, unpredictable and dangerous. He donned the helmet, flipped on the headlamp and without a backward glance plunged into the interior of the dark mine. Dark. Black dark.
This far away, there was obviously no spill of light to be seen from the other side. He ran as fast as he could through the black tunnel, bent almost double, shocked back into the intimidating reality of an environment he hadn't entered in almost forty years.
As he ran, he rounded out the plan he'd put together as he flew down the dark mountain roads, a 'wish and a prayer' plan. Daring and creative, but dangling by a single thread. Everything would hinge on T.J.'s poker-playing skill, specifically his ability to run a good bluff.
Chapter Forty-Four
Raymond Dobson had not been afraid very many times in his life. There had been that horror-filled afternoon when he was a child that he and T.J. had gone out to watch the train derailment T.J.'s mother had painted. A monumentally bad idea from the get-go, but it had taught him a valuable lesson about thinking through his actions all the way to the end.
There'd been times when he was working as a miner when he'd been so scared he'd been grateful for the darkness so the other miners couldn't read the terror on his face. He had made the whole experience sound exciting and glamorous when he was explaining it to Bailey. In reality, mining was working bent-over in a dark, dirty, miles-deep hole under a mountain. He'd come within inches of being crushed once when he was a red-hat because he strayed too close to the back of the scoop. And he'd almost been chewed up and spit out by the continuous miner — the piece of equipment that actually ate into the coal seam with its spinning, teeth-like blades. That day, he hadn't realized until it was over how close he had come to dying.
But as he crept along the side of the road in the moonlight, heading for the area in front of the Last Hope Ollie mines stacked one on top of the other, he felt a kind of elemental terror he would never have admitted to his childhood friend. T.J. was the brave one. He was the soldier. He was the man who had fought and killed others, had survived imprisonment after his capture on an unofficial mission the government pretended not to know about.
Dobbs, on the other hand, had never faced real danger — on purpose. No accident. No surprise. Straight up. And he was terrified.
T.J.'s was the dangerous part of this operation. Dobbs just had to get in and get out without getting caught.
He was still terrified.
Dobbs's job was something he could do in his own garage in a few minutes. Easy peasy.
He was still terrified.
Keeping to the shadows, he moved silently from one tree to the next, approaching the vehicles parked in the area in front of the gate in the fenced-in mine property. His job was to disable them. He stood for what seemed like an eternity, studying the car and the van. The area was deserted. Obviously all the kidnappers had gone inside the mine with the girls. And with Bailey.
To do what with them … Dobbs definitely couldn't let his mind go there.
Finally satisfied no one had been left behind to guard the vehicles, he slipped silently out of the trees and hurried to the van. He carefully tried the door handle. Locked. He figured that'd be the case. Making his way around the van, keeping the van between him and the gate in the fence, he knelt beside the back tire, took a long, flat-head screwdriver and carefully loosened the hubcap. Sticking the screwdriver down in his belt, he picked up the tire iron out of the knapsack and popped off the hubcap. It came off with a clunking sound and Dobbs froze, his heart hammering louder than the sound the hubcap made. He sat frozen, held his breath. Waited thirty seconds. A minute. When nothing happened, he used the lug wrench to remove the five lug nuts, grunting from the effort with the third one, which seemed to have been welded in place. He threw each lug nut into the woods as he removed it, then pulled from the knapsack the mechanic's jack he'd taken from the workshop in his garage where he worked on his collection of antique and classic cars.
He and T.J. had considered the best way, the quickest and easiest method to disable the vehicles. Remove the battery or some other key component of the engine was first in line, but you couldn't get the hood up if the vehicles were locked. Dobbs removed the jack, inserted the lug wrench into the slot to serve as the handle, and scooted the jack under the frame. When he began to jack the vehicle up, every crank-crank, crank-crank, crank-crank sounded as loud as a smoke alarm. Or so it seemed to him. In truth, this was the best jack money could buy and its operation was almost soundless. When he finally had the van up high enough, he wrestled the tire off the axel, set it on the ground and rolled it ahead of him back toward the woods, then shoved it off into the trees.
He hurried back to the van, let off the jack and pulled it out from under the vehicle. Now the van axel rested on the ground. It wasn't going anywhere. He made his way silently to the car, tried the door handle. And it wasn't locked. But if he opened the door, the dome light would come on. Wouldn't take but a couple of seconds to pop the hood release and close the door again, though. The light would blink on, then off again. Still …
It'd be easier and faster to remove the battery than to take off one of the tires.
The light would only be on for a couple of seconds.
He thought, vacillated, then set down the tools he was carrying. Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the door and searched frantically. Where was the — there it was, the hood release. He popped it and quickly closed the door, dousing the light. Then he leaned against the car, panting. It took maybe a minute to get his breathing under control, to stop gasping, and he went to the front of the car and pushed up the hood. Taking the adjustable wrench from his pocket, he leaned in and felt around. The brief flash of light had messed with his vision and he couldn't see as well as when his eyes were adjusted to the darkness. But he found the battery, took the wrench and removed the first cable.
"Looking for something?"
The voice came out of the darkness behind him. He jerked immediately erect and banged his head painfully on the hood.
Then he felt the jab of a gun barrel into his back.
"Move, fat boy, and I'll blow you away."
Dobbs didn't move.
A hand grabbed Dobbs by the shoulder and shoved him violently to the ground.
"You just boosted your last battery, hillbilly," said the man standing above him, through crooked, blackened teeth. His face was strikingly ugly, no chin and a nose smashed flat between pockmarked cheeks. Obviously, he hadn't yet noticed the wheel missing from the van and believed Dobbs was merely a thief. He brought the barrel down to within inches of Dobbs's nose, and thumbed back the hammer.
Dobbs had two, maybe three seconds to live.
Chapter Forty-Five
For a big man, Jacko was surprisingly agile. The shock of a voice coming from the depths of the mine paralyzed him only for an instant. Then, in a single fluid movement he grabbed Bailey, yanked her in front of him, a shield, as he drew a weapon from a shoulder holster and pointed it at the shaft openings, swinging it back and forth in a sweeping motion. The empty
space at the face of the mine offered no cover except the bodies of the hostages, and the kidnappers followed their boss's lead, dragging the girls to their feet and hunkering down behind them.
Bailey could tell the Beast was shocked and surprised, but there was nothing that even resembled fear on his face. A lifetime on the delivering end of violence and brutality would make Jacko a hard man to intimidate.
"Whoever you are, you better—"
"Shut. Up!" The words boomed out of the darkness, harsh and loud, echoing against the rock walls, coming from everywhere and nowhere. "Here's how this works," T.J. said. "I talk, you listen."
"You're making a big mistake. You have no idea who you're—"
"I know exactly who I'm dealing with — a stupid city boy so dumb it must take you two hours to watch 60 Minutes.”
While T.J. was talking, the Beast had motioned to his three men. Shoving the girls in front of them, two advanced with weapons drawn on the tunnels to the left of the center belt-line tunnel. He and the blonde called Hollywood started toward the tunnels to the right.
"Forget trying to get the drop on me." The men's attention yanked to the tunnel at the end on the right where it now seemed the voice was coming from. "You ever even been inside a coal mine?"
The Beast didn't answer, just shoved Bailey a few steps in front of him, leaned over and grabbed a flashlight out of one of the duffel bags.
"Flip the switch on that flashlight and it'll be your last act on this earth. When the dust settles after the explosion, they won't be able to find enough of you for a DNA sample."
The Beast stopped.
"Think you're a tough guy, don't you. Can do anything you want — the law doesn't apply to you."
The voice seemed to be coming from the shafts on the left side now. The men exchanged glances, confused by the ever-changing location of the voice coming at them from the darkness.
"Well, let me tell you something, moron. The laws of the state of West Virginia, of the United States — even international law — might not apply to you, but if you flip the switch on that flashlight or try to crank that chainsaw the laws of nature are going to …" He paused, said each word individually. "Punch. Your. Ticket."
Then T.J. sounded frustrated.
"Can't you read? Those signs on the fence — 'Danger', ‘Poisonous Gas' — you think they're a joke? Maybe a bluff, like a 'Beware of Dog' sign when the dog's a chihuahua. You ever heard of coal mines blowing up? Happens all the time, and I'm about to explain to you why that is. It's okay, I'll use small words so you won't have to take notes with your crayons."
T.J. paused, only for a second or two, but when he started talking again his voice appeared to be coming from only a few feet away, from the belt-line shaft right in front of them.
As he spoke, it dawned on Bailey. There wasn't a hint of a West Virginia dialect in his words.
"Methane gas — you can't see it or smell it — is released when you dig into coal. The stuff that kills all those mine canaries. Add in particles of combustible coal dust floating in the air — the combination's more volatile than nitroglycerin. A cubic centimeter has ten times the explosive power of a stick of dynamite. You with me so far?"
By unspoken command, all the men had been converging on the center shaft and the black guy literally jumped when the next words came from a shaft three over to the left. They didn't seem to have put it together that there must be connecting shafts back there in the dark!
"There's a gigantic fan that sucks bad air out and good air in when miners are working. You see a fan here? Go ahead. I'll wait while you look around. Hear one running, do you? The fan on this mine hasn't been turned on in a month. Methane's been building up in here day after day. That's why there are warning signs, idiot!"
The lone word "idiot" seemed to come from the tunnel against the left wall. But it couldn't have, because the next words clearly came from the one on the far right. T.J. was playing with the echo. "There's a meter that measures methane on the back wall over there. Why don't you go take a look at it — you don't have to be a rocket scientist to read it. There's a dial — green, yellow and red. First-grader stuff."
The Beast didn't move.
"What's the matter — afraid to see what it says?"
Jacko gestured with his chin and the black man turned and went to the methane meter on the wall.
"The portable one I'm carrying isn't as accurate as that one. Read the sign next to it — the part where it says if the needle leaves the green, moves even a hair into the yellow, federal law requires you to evacuate the mine." He thundered the next words, "You think that's a joke?"
He spoke softly then.
"But that needle's not in the yellow, is it? I can't see it from here, but the needle on my meter isn't." He paused for a beat, then said even softer, "It's in the red. Take a real good look at it, because not many men have ever seen a methane meter in the red … and lived to tell about it. You better hope there's no static electricity in your pants. When this blows, it'll take out both these mines, the road and the first hundred yards of the mountain on the other side."
The look on the black man's face when he turned away from the meter, along with the careful way he moved, said all that needed to be said.
When T.J. spoke again, it was measured and slow.
"Use your brain, idiot. Think! Who gave you the key to that gate out there?"
T.J. let the words hang like coal dust in the air.
He scored with that one. Bailey could see a vein in the Beast's temple begin to throb.
"Mr. W. Maxwell Crenshaw the third, Billy to his friends if he had any, told you he had a dandy place for you to do your dirty little job." T.J. let that lie. The Beast didn't argue. "He did, didn't he … and he does know what happens in a mine when you don't run the fan for a month."
The Beast and the others had stopped trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. They just stood there, listening.
"You provided a valuable service for Mr. Crenshaw's special clients, but the minute that houseboat anchor line dragged up the body of that girl this morning — the one you strangled — you became a liability. Murder, kidnapping, prostitution … and the trail leads right back to his front door."
He made a tisk-tisk sound.
"So I'm Maxwell Crenshaw and I've got a serious problem on my hands. I may be a criminal, but I've made my fortune with cunning. Lying, cheating, stealing — but not violence. I don't have an army of professional killers to make witnesses and evidence go away. What do I do?"
Then T.J.’s voice became harsh and sarcastic. "Well, duh, I give a dumbass like you a key to the fence and send him down into a coal mine full of explosive methane gas, tell him, 'Go ahead — crank up that chainsaw!'"
Bailey could actually feel the sudden fear in the air.
"Problem. Solved."
"Who are you and what do you want?" the Beast called out. There was no emotion of any kind in his voice. But he didn't continue toward the mine shafts and he didn't try to turn on his flashlight. And the other men were standing absolutely still, not moving, the way you'd stand if … well, if you had a bomb strapped to you.
"Who I am doesn't matter and what I want is obvious. Those girls. Unharmed. All of them."
The Beast let out a bleat of sound. Disdainful laughter, maybe. Bailey wasn't sure what it meant.
"Mexican standoff," T.J. said, pleasantly. "We're both screwed. You can't let any of us walk out of here alive, not with what we know. What could those girls testify to? Oh my. Death penalty, needle-in-the-arm material — kidnapping, rape … murder."
T.J. lost it then. "They're children!" There was raw rage in the words, but when he continued, he'd gotten control of his voice and again became a negotiator.
"You have to kill us — you have no choice. So we have absolutely nothing to lose. You kill me or an explosion kills me. I'm just as dead either way. And those girls — blown instantly into red mist is a more merciful death than what you have planned. You have
nothing to threaten any of us with. No leverage."
"I asked you what you want from me."
"This isn't about what I want you to give me … it's about what I'm willing to give you."
Suddenly, the belt line, the conveyor belt that made a continuous loop through the shaft called Main Street sprang to life. But it wasn't moving forward, carrying the coal to the front of the mine. It was moving backwards, dumping the chunks of coal that'd been loaded onto it into a growing pile on the floor a few feet from where Bailey stood. Its rattle and clunk rumbled loud in the stillness. All eyes were fixed on it, instantly saw the cleared-off space where some small, red thing was lying on the belt. It looked like … a Pez dispenser? T.J. stopped the conveyor belt right before the red thing dropped off onto the floor in front of them.
"Ever bought a Bic lighter in a convenience store?" There was a heartbeat of breathless silence before T.J.'s voice echoed again off the rock walls. "Don't know about where you come from, pal, but here in West Virginia … convenience stores sell butane lighters in a two-pack."
Chapter Forty-Six
T.J. said nothing else, let the silence hang there, full of restrained violence, a mighty storm before that first crack of thunder. Either the guy'd bought the line of crap he'd been hawking or he hadn't. Firing out of the darkness, T.J. could pick his shot, would probably be able to drop two of the gunmen without hitting the girls. He'd gotten a bead on the Beast. He'd die first.
"So what is it?" Jacko said. "What you're offering?"
Hooked him!
"Escape," T.J. moved quickly down the cross shaft — as quickly as it was possible to move bent over like an old man hobbling behind a walker in a fifty-two-inch hole. After all these years, he'd forgotten that part, how hard it was for anybody taller than a fire hydrant to get around.
