by Rob Buckman
"Mike, stop it,” she muttered, coming awake.
"Welcome back to the land of the living." Kat realized it was Max, pushing him away. In doing so she made the fatal mistake of moving.
"OOOhhhh!" She groaned. "You call this living. Oh, my God! I hurt in places that I didn't know I had places."
"You've got places in all the right places, their just a bit bruised that's all."
"Where are we, anyway?"
"Beats the shit out of me. Let me look round and I'll tell you." Mike staggered to his feet, fell down, stood up again, and looked around. It didn't tell him much, but a short unsteady walk told him what he needed to know. He knew where they were.
"We're about a stone’s throw from town. If we hustle, we can make it before dark." Kat just groaned, unable to make a coherent reply.
* * * * * *
Charley polished the last wine glass and hung it in the rack, looking around and contemplating his domain. They were ready for the evening bash, and looking at his watch, he knew he had an hour yet. Lighting a cigar, he filled a shot glass with Kentucky Bourbon, savoring the taste of peat and smoke.
'Not bad.' He thought 'for and old marine.' Life had been good to him. From being a poor black kid from the ghetto with a giant chip on his shoulder, to a man, courtesy of the U.S. Marine corps and a woman who was proud to walk beside him. He was proud of who he was, and what he'd become. He no longer needed to prove anything to anyone or apologize for being black. He was at last comfortable with it and his life. The one dark cloud on the horizon was the fact that he'd been unable to help a friend when he needed him most. The sound of the side door crashing open brought him round fast, gun in hand and ready to blast away. He froze, his jaw dropping in amazement. Two barely recognizable people stood there, and it was questionable as to who was holding who up.
"Hi Charley, you open for business?" A raspy voice asked. "Kat and I thought we'd drop in for a beer."
"Well, I be dipped in sheep shit! Ruth! Get the medical kit!" His parade ground bellow could be heard all the way to the house. And it only took one minute flat for Ruth to appear, medical kit in one hand, 9 mm auto in the other.
"What on earth are you bellowing about... Oh good heavens!" She didn't bother asking stupid questions, just laid the kit on the bar and went to help.
Charley doubted whether he'd seen two more forlorn and battle weary people in his life. Both had cut's and blood all over them. Sodden wet, dirty, and looking as if they were both about to drop dead. He leapt over the bar in one bound, helping Mike to the stool in the corner. Ruth took charge, first cleaning Mike's head wound, then grabbing Kat around the waist and heading for the door.
"You take care of him. You hear me Charley Savage!"
"Yes sir! I surely will. You go on up to the house with the young lady. This soldier needs some fortification before he comes up." Charley moved behind the bar again and pulled out his special bottle, pouring a silver tankard half full.
"Here, wrap yourself around that." Mike did, swallowing about half the contents in the first gulp. Liquid fire ran down his throat, slowly spreading into his veins and around the rest of his battered body.
"God! That feels good." Mike fumbled with his weapon, depositing it on the bar. "You got a cleaning kit around here?" He asked. "Lost mine inside a mountain." Charley nodded, opening a cabinet below the bar.
"If you will permit, I'd like to clean that for you, sir." His voice was gruff with emotion. Mike smiled.
"For once you've got it Gunny." He knew his hands weren't up to it, yet it had to be done. This wasn't over yet by a long shot.
Charley laid out a clean bar towel and under Mike's direction stripped the weapon. Each piece was meticulously cleaned, oiled and laid aside before starting on the next piece. Mike continued sipping his drink, the nectar gradually reviving him. Without prompting, he started telling the story, leaving out nothing, not the men he'd killed, or how he'd done it. Charley never said a word, knowing that this was the time for listening, not talking. No thought of disapproval or sanction crossed his mind. If a man picks up a gun, and goes after another man, he deserves all he gets. If anything, it re-enforced his opinion of the man, expecting nothing less. It did change his opinion of the girl. Few, if any, could have gone through what she'd been through. Ruth had been right. Some woman was going to get her hands on this man and had, the fact that she was cut from the same cloth made it all the better. He chuckled, imagining the children they'd have, girls or boys.
"There she is, Cap, all ready." He handed the rifle back, along with a cleaned, reloaded magazine.
Mike dropped it into the well and tapped it home, jacking a round into the breach, and flipping the safety on. Charley didn't bat an eyelid. There was no telling what or when something would come at them again. When it came, it came from a totally unexpected quarter. The front door opened and in walked Sheriff Napa. Followed closely by Pete Rogers. The moment Sheriff Napa spotted him, he whipped out his side arm.
"Freeze!" he shouted. "You so much as blink I'll blow your fucking head off."
"You do that, and you'll never live to see him hit the floor." Charley snapped. The 9 mm clamped in his hand, pointed at the sheriff. Mike and the sheriff both froze. The day had started out a total disaster and gone steadily downhill ever since. So why stop now.
"You're breaking the law Savage! This man is a fugitive. I'm placing him under arrest" he snapped. "It's a felony to obstruct the law. Take his weapon." Charley leaned on the bar, carefully taking the cigar out of his mouth and inspecting the end, his weapon still trained on the sheriff. At last he looked up.
"Fuck you!" he said in a clear concise voice.
"As a police officer, I'm giving you a direct order," Sheriff Napa snapped.
"And as a citizen of this town who elected you. Go fuck yourself."
"And as the FBI agent in charge of this investigation. I'm ordering you both to put your weapons away."
"I'm the law around here and what I say goes."
"Would you three gentleman kindly get the dance finished so I can put this rifle down. It's getting heavy," was Mike's contribution to the discussion.
"Put it on the bar, sir." Pete Rogers said.
"Thank you." With great care, flicking the safety on, he did what he was told. Laying it down, and winking at Charley, Pete Rogers walked up and flashed his badge—not that he needed too—but he wanted to keep up the appearance of not knowing Mike.
"I'm placing you under arrest for the kidnapping of Kat Ballard..."
"Kidnapping! Shit! This fucker blew away half the security staff up at Roland Hawkins Ranch, and all you can do is arrest him for kidnapping."
"Kidnapping is a federal crime, murder is local. Federal crimes have precedence over anything local."
"God damn it! You FBI shithead's think you can come in and do what you please. We'll see about that." With that, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
"I'm sorry Mike. It has to be this way."
"I know sport, just watch your tail. There's more to this than you think."
"I do get that impression."
"What now Pete?" Charley asked.
"I'll have to take him down to the local station and book him, then I'll get him out of town and back to Washington as quick as possible. By the way, where is the girl?"
"Up at the house."
"Thank god for that. If she were dead there'd be hell to pay."
"She's all right. A bit bruised and scratched." It was a classic understatement.
"Will she sign a statement saying she wasn't kidnapped?"
"Hell yes. Why do you ask?"
"If we get that, we'll have to drop the kidnapping charge, wont we." Pete said with a grin. "But only after we get him to Washington."
"You've got that right," Charley snapped.
"Keep her under wraps for about twelve hours, then get her to make a statement to the press or something."
"That's easy," Mike said. "She in the same state as I am and
will be out cold for at least twelve, if not fourteen hours."
"With the shit that's coming down on this one, I can't think of a better place for you to catch up on your sleep, undisturbed, as in jail." Charley pointed out.
"He's right Mike. It's the safest place for you. The moment I get there, I'll call it in and put in on record. If Hawkins comes after you, then everyone will know about it."
"It might not stop him, he's got too much at stake to let this go now."
"Don't worry, within six hours I can have a full FBI 'SWAT' team here to guard you."
"If it'll make you sleep easier. I'll be on shotgun watch outside with your playmate here." Charley patted the rifle on the bar.
"I can't argue with you, I'm about to fall asleep right here."
"So let’s go then."
Pete fell in step behind Mike, following him to the car. He reached round and opened the back door, going through all the motions as if it was a real bust. Even as tired as he was, Mike felt uneasy. But couldn't place his finger on what it was. It wasn't Pete, he'd trust him with his life and had. No, it was something else. The drive to the police station was short and, waiting for Pete to open the door, he looked around. Nothing looked out of place. Just a quiet street in a quiet town with night rapidly falling. All was peaceful. Yet Mike knew it shouldn't be. There was still a gang of killers out there looking to collect on his hide. How long would it be before they knew where he was, not only alive but sitting in jail waiting to be collected. Pete opened the door, and they walked into the police station together. At that point, it started to go sideways. First, there were too many people in the place. Too many suits.
"Agent Rogers?" A well dress, distinguished looking man asked.
"Yes Sir." Pete stepped forward, neither man offering to shake hands.
"I'm Special Agent Mossel from the Denver office, area Supervisor." Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out his credentials folder and handed it to Pete Rogers. For a split second, Mike thought he was going to pull out a gun, then breathed a sigh, relaxing his muscles.
"Yes Sir, I remember you. We met once before, in Washington."
"Is this the man?" He didn't have to specify which one.
"Yes Sir."
"Then how come you haven't cuffed him. You are aware of standard procedure I take it?"
"Yes Sir." It was getting monotonous.
"Then do it, and we'll be on our way."
"On your way, I don't understand?"
"I'm taking over this case. It should have been a local matter in the first place. I've also started an investigation into your conduct in this." A steely note had crept into his voice.
"You lost me Sir." The man's head snapped around, locking eyes with Pete.
"Didn't you tell Sheriff Napa you'd called in help from the Denver office?"
"Yes, sir I did..."
"Yet you lied! Why?"
"You see, sir..." He cut Pete off with a wave of his hand.
"I'm not interested in excuses. You can do that to your supervisor in Washington. Cuff him." He said over his shoulder. Seeing Pete hadn't moved to do it. One of the other suits stepped forward, bringing a pair of handcuffs from under his coat, snapping them tight around Mike's wrists, a nasty grin on his face.
"I've already called your supervisor and he's expecting your call within the hour. I would strongly suggest you make the call and not keep him waiting." With that note of dismissal, he turned away, walking over to Sheriff Napa.
“I'm sorry if this agent has caused you any trouble. We usually like to keep on friendly terms with you local fellows." He held his hand out, a condescending smile on his face. It was about as genuine as the one you see on an alligator just before it opens its mouth to clamps down on your arm.
"I... Well… thank you. I was surprised when you guys turned up." He took the offered hand and shook.
"We try to get on top of situations like this."
"I still say he should stay here. There's the murder charges against him."
"That will all be taken care of in Denver and I'll see to it you get the credit for the bust."
"I don't know..."
"If you have any doubts or questions, you can call the Capital and talk to the Director's office." Mike could see that the man had already backed down. He wasn't about to call up the Director of the FBI and start making waves.
"We'll be on our way then."
"If you could hang on a minute." Pete said. "I'd like to make the call and go with you." Pete trying desperately to think of a way to stay with Mike.
"I'd would strongly suggest you make that call and get your ass back to Washington on the next available plane. Let us handle this from here on out." That did it. Pete could smell a rat. Mike could and did. It was a set up, official or not. Washington had finally tried to get him. Ten years he'd been waiting for this and he'd walked into it with his eyes open. He couldn't blame Pete. He probably knew nothing about it, but the Company did. He’d inadvertently given them the opening they needed and they'd taken it. Mossel walked up to him as Pete walked into the other room to make the phone call.
"So you're the asshole that been causing all the problem down here. Well, my friend, that’s over. You're dead meat." He looked over his shoulder. "Get this garbage out of here." He said. The other three suits moved in. Feeling two weapons shoved into his ribs.
"Please give us any excuse, any at all, and we'll blow you in two." Mike didn't bother to answer. He was too tired and it wouldn't help anyway.
He'd been taught never to give away his intentions to the enemy. If you are going to do something, do it. Don't talk about it. If you talk, you put the enemy on notice your intentions. Stay quiet, and you keep him guessing. Not that he had any plan, he didn't. He was so tired and his brain hadn't stopped cataloging the injuries. Finding something from the top of his head down to his soles of his feet to remind him of the abuse he put his body through in the last few days. From now on, he'd be paying for every one of them. They hustled him out the side door and into an unmarked car, two in the back and one in the driver’s seat. Mossel came out and climbed into the passenger side, turning to give Mike a nasty grin.
"If you give these gentleman an excuse I'm sure they will be delighted to blow you apart."
"That was easy." The driver said.
"Shut up and drive. You know where." Mossel snapped, turning his attention back to Mike.
"You don't look so tough from where I'm sitting." Mike said nothing.
"Well tough guy? Nothing to say?" One of the guards chuckled.
"Mr. Hawkins is going to be so glad to see you. To put it mildly he’s very pissed off at you, considering the amount of damage you did to his property."
The bits clicked into place, not that he was surprised. With enough power and money, you can buy almost anything, including FBI agents. These he would have killed without a second thought, and given half a chance might yet. Somewhere during the drive, Mike dozed off, only to be jarred awake by a sharp jab from the gun barrel in his side.
"Wake up sleeping beauty." They dragged him from the car and shoved him towards a dark building. The ranch house where it all started most likely, Mike thought. Without warning, the lights snapped on and he had to blink a few times before he could see.
"Nice to meet you at last Grainger." Bonner's grinning face loomed in front of his. "You ran us a merry chase."
"Hope you enjoyed it."
"Can't say that I did. I know some of the people who started out with me didn't. They are dead, thanks to you."
"You pay your ticket and you take the ride, you know that as well as I do." Bonner nodded at his words, knowing what he meant.
"You're right. I've got no complaints coming. You just turned out to be better than anyone expected."
"Shit, man, this piece of garbage just walked into our hands like a lamb to the slaughter. He's not so tough!" Mossel said and punched Mike in the side. Normally, he would have shrugged it off, but Mossel had punched his wounded s
ide. Bright flashes popped before his eyes and he felt himself start to sink towards the floor. The other two FBI men dragged him upright again. Bonner looked at the FBI man and laughed. Walking over to stand in front of Mike.
"That was well done! I wonder if you'd have the guts to do that if he was un-cuffed." As the meaning of Bonner’s words sank in, Mossel looked around. Just in time to catch the backhanded blow from Bonner. It caught him across the mouth, knocking him onto the floor. The other three dived for their guns, only to find they were too late. Bonner's men covered them. Reaching down Bonner grabbed Mossel by the shirtfront, dragging him up off the floor.
"Listen to me shithead. If you had been through half of what he's been through you'd be dead. Let alone walking under your own power. Don't go putting him down, or hitting him in front of me!" Bonner dropped him, wiping his hands on his pants. It felt as if he'd touched something dirty. Mossel rolled over, spitting blood and a broken tooth. Climbing to his feet, he tried to straighten his clothes, with little success.
"Jesus Christ! How come you’re suddenly so all fired protective of him?" Bonner turned and looked at him like he was something he’d stepped in.
"Because he's like us. We kill because we get paid to kill, not because we get a kick out of it. You and your so-called law enforcement agencies use people like us to do the dirty work. Work you are too chicken to do yourselves."
"I don't get it? You sound as if you admire the man"
"No, I don't expect you do. And yes, I do. I might have to kill him but, damn it, I respect him." With that, he turned and walked away. Mossel looked at his men, finding no help there.
"Find somewhere he'll be safe for tonight. If he escapes I'll kill you."
"Yes, sir." There was no mistaking the tone, he meant it.
Bonner's remarks had surprised Mike, he hadn't expected it. Not that it would do him much good. Bonner would shoot him if ordered too without a second thought but at least he knew where the man was coming from. His accommodations turned out to be a smelly bed in the damp windowless basement of the ranch. To Mike, it was the softest bed he ever had the pleasure of laying down on. The accommodations were as expected, so no surprise there. Bonner turning up with a plate of hot food and a mug of steaming coffee was.
