“Such as?” Ralph asked.
“Such as confirming Mason’s position in the convoy. Jonah may not have time to give us that information in the morning. No point in people risking their necks taking out the wrong vehicle.”
“During the time I had the dubious pleasure of being Mason’s guest, he always drove a black GMC Canyon,” Granger said. “We’ll need to confirm that tomorrow, though. Whether he drives himself or sits in the passenger seat is important, too. It’ll affect the configuration of the ambush.”
“Why?” Cody asked, looking slightly confused.
“Better to shoot from the side of the road that Mason is sitting on,” Clete explained. “Gives us a better chance of killing him.”
Walter nodded. “Most likely Mason will be driving, so your starting position will be on the left side of the road. Depending on Walter’s signal, though, you may need to cross over. Don’t worry. There’s good cover on both sides.” He looked around at the men. “From start to finish, the attack won’t take more than thirty seconds. The trick will be to make sure Mason enters the kill zone without any twitchy fingers giving the game away. Once you’ve targeted his vehicle and shot him to hell, you’re out of there.”
Like Granger had said at the outset, though straightforward, the operation had a lot of moving parts. For the next while, the two ex-soldiers continued to drill the team, going through every minute detail of the plan, including the different scenarios depending on where Mason’s vehicle would be positioned in the convoy, how tightly bunched his vehicles would be, the exact position each shooter would take during the attack, and the various radio commands they could expect to receive from Walter. Also of huge importance, the rally point and escape route by which they would exit the area.
Finally, Walter and Granger were satisfied with their preparations. They wrapped things up, and the hit team traipsed over to the farmhouse, where the evening’s dinner was being prepared.
It would be another early night for them. The following morning, they would rise at 5 a.m. and head down to the ambush site. While it was unlikely Mason would head out of camp that early, they couldn’t afford to take the chance and get caught off guard.
“So, what’s your thoughts?” Granger asked Walter while the two stood together on the patio beside the grill. “You think we’ve got a realistic shot at this?”
“Absolutely,” Walter replied, as the smell of sizzling venison steaks wafted under their noses. “If your man Jonah can find out a little more information for us tonight, even better. The more we know, the greater the chance of this going smoothly. Plus a little luck,” he added. “Every military operation needs a little luck to succeed.”
Granger smiled briefly. “Me and you have too many missions under our belts to think different. Nothing ever goes totally to plan. Clusterfucks abound.”
CHAPTER 25
Jonah sat at the stern of a sixteen-foot Beavertail chugging across the bay, keeping a steady hand on the skiff’s outboard tiller. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, and a light breeze ruffled his hair. It was another beautiful midsummer’s day.
He sighed wistfully. This was only his second time out on the lake since his arrival, and under normal circumstances would be his idea of heaven. Unfortunately, instead of partaking in a few delightful hours of fishing, he was navigating his way toward the western shores of Lake Ocooe, where a bunch of cutthroat bandits awaited his return.
After finishing up his radio call with Bert Olvan, he’d returned to Chickasaw, where he packed up his gear and headed over to North Beach. After a ten-minute search, he’d found the skiff Nate and his team had arrived in the previous night, the one he’d ostensibly come over on. Though he had no idea where Nate’s camp was located, he thought it best to make a pretense of going over to Greasy Creek to collect his belongings.
Curiously, while he’d been searching for the skiff, as he’d rounded the point of one of the headland’s many tiny bays, he’d spotted Mason and another man dragging a small boat into the forest. They hadn’t seen him, and he made sure to quickly duck out of sight before they did. What was that all about?
He reached the far side of the lake, turned south, and soon passed the jutting headland of Camp Benton, though it was perhaps wiser to call it “Camp Mason” for the moment. A few minutes later, he steered the craft into a perfectly-shaped horseshoe bay, from which the impressive Wasson Lodge could be seen.
On the back lawn, Gatto and three of his crew members lay sprawled on deck chairs. Two were bare-chested, wearing swimming shorts and sunshades. They looked more like city tourists on a weekend break than the ruthless bandits who had only the previous night overrun a well-defended camp. Only the semi-automatic rifles that leaned up against the side of their chairs gave the game away. Farther back, another two crew members were chucking a football back and forth to one another. There was no sign of Paul Webb anywhere.
Gatto lifted his head and waved over to Jonah as he tied up to the jetty. “Hey, Murph! Get your ass over here!” he yelled.
Jonah grabbed his backpack off the skiff’s deck, hopped up onto the jetty, and made his way over. Ten yards out, Gatto leaned over to one side of his deckchair. A moment later, a small cylindrical shape came whizzing at Jonah, which he caught deftly in one hand.
Gatto grinned. “Nice catch.”
Jonah cracked open the can of Coors one-handed and took a long slug from it. The gang leader looked pleased to see him, perhaps even relieved he’d shown up. After all, Jonah had been pretty much press-ganged into his services the previous evening.
He gestured to the empty deckchair beside him. “Sit,” he said. “Lenny won’t mind you stealing his chair awhile.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Jonah shrugged the pack off his shoulder and slung it on the ground, then sat down beside Gatto.
“What took you so long?” Gatto asked, staring at him closely. “You hang out with Mason some more?”
Jonah noted an edge to his voice. It appeared Gatto was a little wary of his burgeoning friendship with Mason. He put it down to natural rivalry between the two gang leaders. Growing up in the inner-city flats of Dublin, he’d seen it a dozen times. It rarely ended well. Hopefully it wouldn’t this time either.
He shook his head. “Nah, after I left yis, I went and took a quick kip in one of the cabins.”
Gatto frowned. “A kip? What the fuck is that?”
“A nap,” Jonah explained. “Did me head wonders. Feel fresh as a daisy now.”
Gatto grinned. “Me and the boys have been dozing off all day too.” He pointed over at the skiff. “That Nate’s boat?”
Jonah nodded. “I took it to Greasy Creek and picked up me gear. Thought I’d bring it back here rather than leave it at Mason’s camp,” he added quickly.
Gatto looked pleased. “Good. It’ll come in useful. We left our boat at our old camp and drove back in our trucks. Tomorrow, we’ll take yours to cross the bay and pick it up.”
Jonah took another slurp from his beer. “Where’s Paul and Curly?” he asked, looking around.
Gatto indicated toward the lodge. “They’re on guard duty. The last owners built sandbag positions on either side of the building. I posted one at each.”
Jonah nodded. “How about accommodation? I bet ye’ve all taken the good rooms, haven’t yis?”
“First come, first served,” Gatto replied with a chuckle. “I took a bedroom suite in the lodge. So did most of the boys.” He swiveled his head and pointed over to three trailers that sat parked in the center of the field. “The blue trailer is empty, and there’s still a room left at the lodge too. Take your pick.”
Jonah thought for a moment. “I’ll take the trailer,” he said. It would give him more privacy, and also offered him a better means of escape when the time finally came.
Gatto nodded. “It’s all yours.”
Jonah gulped down the last of his beer, then stood up. “I better claim it before anyone changes their minds. See yeh in a few.” He pic
ked up his backpack and sauntered off in the direction of his trailer.
“Hey, Murph!” Gatto called out to him. Jonah stopped and turned around. “Glad you showed up. Thought you might have left me to join Mason’s crew.”
Jonah beamed a big grin back at him, then shook his head emphatically. “No way, Gat. Youse lads fit me style bang on. I’m not going anywhere.”
After moving into his new quarters, Jonah spent the rest of the day by the lakeside, chatting with Gatto, horsing around with his men, and learning American football, which he insisted wasn’t a “proper” sport at all—too much bleedin’ stopping and starting.
Other than for Paul Webb, Gatto and his crew still made him uneasy. The lawless world in which they now found themselves appeared to have stripped them of their humanity. Or perhaps they had always been like that, it was impossible to know. Either way, Jonah’s streetwise upbringing had taught him how important it was to chum up to his new friends, and he used all his charm and humor to ingratiate himself with them.
At sunset, they ate dinner out on the lawn. It consisted of cuts of well-hung venison the gang had brought back from their old camp, which they cooked on a grill along with some bockwurst-style hot dogs from out of a bottle.
“Shame there’s no rolls for these hot dogs,” Curly grumbled as he speared the last one off the grill. Dunking it in a jar of mustard, he took a large bite. “It’s stuff like that I miss about the old days.”
Jonah raised the can of beer he held in his hand. “I can live without the bread rolls, Curly. What are we going to do when the gargle runs out? That’s the nightmare scenario.”
Curly chuckled. “Lucky for us, there’s still plenty of it around. It’s not exactly high on most people’s survival list.”
Jonah grinned. “True. Yeh can’t live on booze alone. Trust me, I’ve tried.”
“The food’s already disappeared from the supermarket shelves,” Paul Webb said, standing next to Jonah at one side of the grill. Both he and Curly were off duty now, replaced by Lenny and another of Gatto’s men. “Gas stations will run dry soon and we’ll have to walk everywhere.”
“That reminds me,” Gatto said. “We should stock up on more fuel soon. I think we’re down to out last few jerry cans. Maybe we can find a tank truck and drive it back here,” he mused. “Tomorrow we’ll make a run to Cleveland and see if we can find one.”
“That’d keep us going awhile,” Jonah agreed, though privately he doubted they would have much luck finding one. He checked his watch and made a face. “Ah, bollix! Just remembered…I better go and see Mason. He wants another natter about the auld sod.”
Gatto scowled. “Don’t he have no one else to talk to? He better not make a habit of this.”
Jonah gazed at him apologetically. “It’s not like I want to, Gat.” He hesitated a moment. “Yeh know what? Fuck him, I’ll stay. Tomorrow morning I’ll tell him I forgot.”
Gatto shook his head. “Nah, we can’t afford to piss him off. Not for now.” He put his arm affectionately around Jonah’s shoulder and stuck his face up close, his breath reeking of beer. “Go tell the fucker a couple of bedtime stories, then get back here as soon as you can. You’re one of us now, Murph, you hear?”
“I’m with yeh all the way, Gat. Through thick and thin.” Unlatching Gatto’s arm, Jonah grinned. “Stay up for me. Maybe I’ll tell yeh a bedtime story too when I get back.”
He strolled up the pathway around the east side of the lodge. After stopping to chat with Lenny a few moments, he pulled out his Maglite and headed down the driveway, the bright beam from his tiny flashlight leading the way. At the bottom, he turned right onto Cookson Road and walked in the direction of Camp Benton, less than a mile away.
He was jittery about meeting Mason again, and focused his mind on what he needed to find out for Bert Olvan. Though straightforward, he had to be careful on how he phrased his questions. Mason was no fool. If, for whatever reason, the bandit wasn’t killed the following day, suspicion might easily fall on him. Judging by Ned Granger’s experience, that wouldn’t work out too well for Jonah.
Halfway up Camp Benton’s driveway, two guards stopped him at what had been the camp’s Papa Three post, where the eight-wheeler still blocked the road. One of the men recognized him and, after radioing ahead, allowed him pass through.
When he arrived at the square, there was no sign of Mason. Asking around, he was directed to the east side of the camp, where he crossed a wooden bridge spanning a small stream. He found Mason sitting outside a trailer parked at one corner of a large rectangular field. Three more trailers occupied the other corners, and nearby was a cluster of family-sized cabins where other members of Mason’s crew sat out as well.
On the table in front of Mason were a bottle of Jim Beam and a two-liter bottle of Coke. Opposite him sat a large pasty-faced man with thick, jet black hair who Jonah recognized from the night before.
Spotting him, Mason leaned back in his chair and hollered out over his shoulder, “Tania, Murph’s here! Bring out another tumbler, and some more nuts while you’re at it.” He gestured for Jonah to sit at the empty chair at the table.
As soon as he sat down, Mason pointed across to the other man. “This here is Doney, my bodyguard and drinking companion. Only, when it comes to drinking he don’t keep up with me too good. Do you, Doney?”
Doney grinned, embarrassed. “I thought I could hold my liquor until I met you.”
At that moment, Tania came down the trailer steps with a ten-ounce glass and a side plate heaped with cashew nuts. She smiled briefly at him as she placed the items on the table, then headed back into the trailer again. Jonah wondered what she saw in someone like Mason. Safety? Comfort? A sensitive, loving relationship? He very much doubted that.
Mason indicated to the whiskey bottle. “No need to be shy. Help yourself,” he said gruffly.
Jonah leaned forward and unscrewed the cap from the whiskey bottle. He poured himself a generous shot, then put the same amount of Coke in. The plastic bottle was cool to the touch. Tania had obviously kept it in the lake earlier.
He raised his glass. “Cheers, lads,” he said, then took a long slug. Behind the sweetness of the Coke, the whiskey stung the back of his throat, and he could sense his body greedily sucking the alcohol into his bloodstream. With a satisfied smack of his lips, he placed the now half-full tumbler back down on the table again.
Mason looked across at Doney, grinning. “Looks like I might have some competition tonight. What do you think?”
Doney shrugged indifferently. “We’ll see.”
Glass in hand, Jonah looked around at his surroundings. “Yeh got yourself a nice setup here, Mason. I see yeh decided to stay in yer trailer instead of taking one of the cabins? Looks like yeh got a fancy one too.”
“I hauled it up from the lodge this morning,” Mason replied. “It’s way more comfortable than any of the cabins here. Keeps Tania happy too.”
Jonah nodded sagely. “No point in getting on the wrong side of your woman. Nothing good ever comes of that.”
“Sounds like the voice of experience. So, what happened to your old lady? vPox take her out?”
Jonah hesitated. “She’s in Ireland. Last time I talked to her, she was fine. But that was two weeks ago.”
“How come you were in the US when the shit went down?” Doney asked curiously. “Business?”
“Nah, I was on me holliers in Orlando. Came over with five other geezers on a fishing trip and was the only one to survive.” He shook his head wistfully. “Never got out on the water to catch that marlin either.”
Mason chuckled. “You’ll have to make do with Lake Ocoee catfish instead.” He paused briefly. “Orlando? That’s a long way from the Cohutta. What made you come all the way here? There’s plenty of wilderness areas in Florida. Hell, you could have even camped in the Everglades.
Jonah shuddered. “The Everglades…yikes!” He pinched his freckled forearm. “Look at me. I’m not built for the heat. Nope, I pick
ed meself up a nice jammer and headed north. It’s hot here, but a whole lot better than Florida.”
“A jammer?” Doney asked with a confused look.
“A car,” Jonah explained. “Comes from Cockney rhyming slang, but us Paddies like to use it too.”
Mason stared at him blankly. “Cockney rhyming slang?”
Jonah grinned. “Jam jar…car. Jammer for short. Geddit?”
Mason looked across at Doney, and the two broke out into broad smiles. “Not yet. But the night’s still young. We’ll figure it out.”
“I’ll say this for the Yanks,” Jonah continued. “Youse lot love to drive around in huuuge pickup trucks, don’t yis? They must do something awful to the gallon. Back home, I drove a Toyota Corolla. Poxy little thing so it was, but at least it didn’t cost much to run.”
Doney picked up his glass and took a sip. “Trucks are part of the American way, especially out in the boonies. Me, I got myself a nice Ford F-150.” He chuckled. “Traded in my ten-year-old one for it before we left Knoxville.”
Mason nodded. “I got a GMC Canyon. Like Doney, I choose American. Always.”
Jonah scrunched up his face. “Don’t think I know that model. Is that the blue truck out in the lot?”
“Nope, it’s black. The one with the red sign on the grill.”
“Ah, yeah. I think I know the one you mean.”
Bingo. Mason drove a black Canyon. Jonah would wait awhile until gleaning the next piece of information. He didn’t want to appear too obvious. In the meantime, he took another slug of whiskey.
Forgive me, Lord, this is work, not play. I need to do this.
“All right, Murph,” Mason said. “How about you tell us something more about Ireland. Doney’s Italian, but he’ll listen anyway. It’s not like he’s got anything better to do.”
Jonah shrugged. “Sure, what do you want to know?”
On The Edge: Book Three in The No Direction Home Series Page 10
