Outlaws

by Tim Green

  Outlaws

  Tim Green

  *

  PROLOGUE:

  His Face Was Gaunt, Clean-Shaven, And Tan, And His Thick Black hair was cut stylishly short. He wore small round sunglasses, and his tall, lean frame, full of angles, gave him the appearance of a menacing insect, he was known as Striker. Sitting in his dusty Pontiac on a rise overlooking a dreary strip mall, Strikers keen eye scanned the parking lot, the bustling W-I-Mart entrance and roof, and surrounding buildings. Heat rose in continuous, shimmering waves from the pavement. Pickup trucks and big Americans cars crawling aimlessly around the lot glimmered like a mirage in the dense heat. It was Striker's habit to check everything. He was thorough, that was one thing Striker prided himself on, and the thought curled the edges of his mouth into a thin smile.

  A white Jeep with woodlike door panels pulled off the road and circled the lot twice before pulling up next to a blue Taurus. Strikers eyes narrowed behind his dark lenses as he watched a man get out of the Jeep. He scanned the area again for anything that looked amiss. It wouldn't be anything obvious but something small, like someone talking for too long on a pay phone or a car creeping through the lot without parking. Details like this could mean the difference between success and failure, life and death.

  The man who left the Jeep was now at the window of the Taurus, and Striker saw him talking. He wore khaki slacks and a white polo shirt, and the highly polished shoes that Striker could see from such a distance contrasted with his informal attire. The man suddenly started to gesticulate wildly. He looked up, searching the parking lot, obviously angry. Something was not right.

  "I'm here," Striker whispered to himself. "I'm right here."

  As if he heard him, the man became calm and then turned and reached through the open passenger-side window of his car and pulled out a gray metallic carrying case. He took one last look around and walked around the back of the Taurus to its passenger side. Striker pursed his lips and started his own engine as the man got in the car and it began to pull out.

  Striker reached the road that met the mall exit just as the Taurus pulled onto it. He began following it from a discreet distance. He hadn't seen anything unusual so far. Eventually the car pulled onto the highway and headed north on Route 87, up the panhandle. Striker tailed the car for a long time, almost to the Canadian River, searching the horizon periodically for aircraft.

  After about an hour, the car slowed and pulled off the highway, heading west on a dirt road. The sun was lower and glaring just above the rim of the mesas, casting long dark shadows amid the barren rocks but blinding the drivers as they drove into its light. Between the glare of the sun and the cloud of dust that rose in the wake of the car ahead, Striker wondered what the hell Peter was doing driving for so many miles on this dirt road. He muttered and cursed Peter until the car stopped in the shadow of a towering rock formation. Despite Striker's impatience, he had always felt Peter was competent and reliable, as anyone could have been in his position. Peter was a bag man. Striker's drone, an errand boy,- he wasn't a player, and no one would notice him if he kept on working for Striker indefinitely or just disappeared altogether.

  When the dust finally settled, Striker unfolded his long limbs and got out of his car His faded jeans matched the vest that he wore over a plain white T-shirt, and his black, alligator cowboy boots added two more inches to his six-foot-two frame. He climbed nimbly onto the roof of his car and surveyed the landscape with a pair of military-issue high-power binoculars. Peter and the man stepped from their car and approached Striker as he jumped down and reached into his front seat to retrieve a leather briefcase. They stopped before they got too close to Striker.

  "What the hell is this shit about?" The man's light blue eyes burned with anger. They were the eyes of a man who demanded respect and got it. A leader. His gray hair was cropped, and his face was too tan. "Who is this guy?"

  Striker shot an ironic smile at Peter. He was almost a full foot shorter than the general, but Striker knew that Peter could tear the bigger man's testicles off and pull the eyeballs out of his head in a sneeze. Peter looked to the ground and rolled a pebble with the tip of his boot.

  'This is Peter, and he was helping me make sure that this was what it was supposed to be. It's not that I don't trust you, but I'm very cautious. You know that," Striker said pleasantly, but with a blank, cool stare that bored into the general's eyes. "Well, now that we all know each other, I'd like to see the pit."

  The general looked at the case in Striker's hand. "Is that the money?"

  "Of course," Striker said flatly, and he set the case on the hood and opened it. Packs of hundred-dollar bills were stacked neatly inside. The general nodded and hoisted his own case up beside it. He spun the tumblers several times and carefully popped the latches before slowly opening the case. In the center of a gray foam mold sat a perfect silver sphere about the size of an orange. The pit: weapons-grade plutonium, extracted from a disassembled American thermonuclear warhead. It looked as useless as an oversized ball bearing. Peter stepped closer for a look.

  Striker took half a step back and with his left hand removed a sleek long- barreled .22 caliber semiautomatic from the shoulder holster inside his "est. He pressed the gun into the general's nose. Striker looked into the gcn

  "I love you, Peter," he said, and in one stroke he swung his arm in an open, magnanimous gesture, brought the gun to Peter's ear and pulled the trigger three times. The short pops of the small-caliber gun echoed off the nearby rock.

  "You're a sick fucker," the general said coolly as he turned, closed the leather case, and grabbed the handle.

  'Yes, well, you could say I'm a bit emotional at times. And I do regret this." Striker had a smirk on his face as he nodded toward the lifeless body at their feet.

  "Now," Striker continued, "1 have a reminder for you, Mr. General. This is the first of three exchanges. I don't want you to make the mistake of taking this money and trying to disappear. I can't have that. This is a package deal, and if you breach our agreement ... Well, lets just say that while you play hide-and-seek, I'll always be one step ahead of you. As you can see," nodding again toward the corpse, "1 take no chances."

  "Don't threaten mt, Striker. You get what you want as long as you bring the money."

  Chapter One

  The offices of Gem Star Technology were on the third floor of a midsized office building just off Congress Avenue on Eighth Street in downtown Austin. The rest of the floor served as the library of the Ridley & Shaw office and was accessible only from the firm's office on the fourth floor. It was rare for anyone other than William Moss or Clara J ones to get off the elevator on the third floor. In fact, very few people knew there even was an office or, that floor. That was the way Bill Moss liked it. He didn't want people around, didn't want them to see him come or see him go. Clara knew that went for her as well.

  Clara had been working at Gem Star Technology for seven years. She worked regular hours, was paid and treated well by her boss, and really didn't have very much to do. In fact, she often wondered how the firm stayed open at all. Bill Moss seemed to do very little business. He rarely had her type a letter, and he received very few calls. Mr. Moss, when he was in at all, would most often sit in his high-backed leather chair behind an ornate mahogany desk, listening to classical music and staring off into space. What she did know of his business seemed to explain his strange comings and goings, and how one man could maintain such nice offices and her salary on so few transactions.

  Clara knew that Bill Moss sold weapons. There were many manufacturing plants in Texas that produced weapons. She had a cousin who worked at the American Arms Co. just north of Austin, and she knew there were lots of others like it. Texans, she knew, liked their weapons. Clara herself wasn't against weapons, only handguns o
n the streets. What Mr. Moss did was different. Clara had typed letters to people in strange places, arranging for shipments of things like automatic rifles, grenade launchers, camouflage clothing, even tanks, armored personnel carriers, and missiles. These letters were copied to officials in Washington, D. C., who held positions in places like the Treasury Department, the Pentagon, and the F. B. I., so she knew that what was happening was legitimate. She wouldn't have said anything if it wasn't. She was the kind of person who just lived her life and hoped no one bothered her. But things were not going so well at the present time.

  Clara chewed her lower lip and wondered if her boss would ever arrive. He had been out of the country for two weeks. She knew he was due back this morning, and usually after a long trip he would appear like the ghost he was, silently entering his office. Occasionally though, even after she knew he was due back, he wouldn't appear in the office for weeks.

  Part of her wished that would be the case now. She dreaded asking her boss for anything, but this was an occasion where she felt she had no other choice. Mr. Moss was quiet and strong, and that made her nervous. Although she had worked for him for seven years, she could count all the conversations they'd had on one hand. The most talking he had ever done was during her interview for the job. He had given her the idea that he would be an amiable and pleasant person to work with. He wasn't unpleasant, but certainly no one would describe Bill Moss as amiable either.

  She hated to ask him for anything, especially a favor, but this was certainly one time she could make an exception. The constant terror in which she and her son were living was making life unbearable. Something had to change, or else she would have to leave Austin. The only place she could really go would be to her sister's in Chicago. Clara's home, small and simple as it was, was not even close to being worth what she had paid for it. She'd have to walk away on the bank to get out of her neighborhood, and if she did that, she'd ruin her credit. She'd do it, though, and move, if something didn't change soon.

  She knew, though, if there was one thing Mr. Moss didn't want, it was to be involved in her private life. She knew that from the beginning. He had told her so, and it had never bothered her. But now she had no one to turn to. She needed help. The police refused to take action, the school said there was little they could do. All she had lived and worked for over the last sixteen years and the health of her son were in danger. He'd never been entirely well, and the pressure he was under was becoming too much for him.

  At first it was simply name-calling. She had expected that. Reggie had a clubfoot, and he stuttered. When he was very young, Reggie didn't go to a normal school. That was fine with her. She loved him. She wanted to take care of him. Then someone who didn't know any better decided that kids like Reggie should be in the regular schools. Things got bad.

  When the boys in the neighborhood became teenagers, things got worse. Reggie began returning home from school with feces and urine smeared into his clothes and hair. Clara kept him inside after school, but they still got him between the bus stop and the front door. They were a sick bunch of kids. She knew that. They were part of a gang--a bad one. There were three of them, and they had taken it upon themselves to torment and terrorize Reggie as part of their daily routine.

  Next came the beatings. She called the school. None of the abuse took place on school grounds, so school officials told her to call the police. Reggie was hysterically afraid of the police. He screamed uncontrollably if she mentioned calling them. She knew his tormentors had told him the police would take him away forever because he was a retard and a loony. He believed them. When she came home from work one day to find him under her hed with cigarette bums on the back of his hands, it was too much. She called ilie police. Reggie wouldn't tell them anything. The police were sorry. There wa*- nothing they could do. They had people being killed every day. A few burns on the hands of a frightened teenager did not rank high on their list of things to fix.

  Clara had no one. She needed help. The only person she could consider turning to for help was Mr. Moss. It was almost unthinkable, but she had to do something or face throwing herself at her sister's feet and living on charity until she got herself back together. She looked up at the clock. It was after noon. She pulled a brown bag from her bottom drawer and had begun to unfold her lunch when her boss walked in through the heavy wood door. Clara uttered a quiet greeting and stood up. Mr. Moss was in his office and already shutting the door before she could even get his attention.

  Finally she blurted out, "Mr. Moss."

  Striker looked at his secretary as if seeing her for the first time. It was unusual for her to speak to him. She knew he didn't like to speak. And he knew that didn't bother her, which was one of the reasons he'd hired her and paid her good money to do relatively little work. He knew everything about Clara Jones before he hired her. She was a large, homely woman who'd moved to Austin from Chicago when she learned she was pregnant. She had never been married, and he guessed she never would be.

  Striker knew she was ashamed, and that was just as well. She had no friends or family close by, and she didn't want any, she had her son. He was fine, too. Striker even knew the son was not retarded. His IQ was slightly below normal, but his stutter and his physical deformity had tracked him in special education classes at an early age. He was a good drain on Clara's time. Striker didn't want Clara to have time or friends or family. He kept her on for as long as he did because she kept to herself, almost completely.

  "Can 1 speak with you about something, please, Mr. Moss?" she said.

  "Come in, Clara," he said in a way that was not unfriendly.

  Clara nearly tripped over the chair trying to get her bulky figure out from behind her desk. By the time she got into Striker's office, he was already seated in his chair, his feet propped casually up on his desk.

  "Sit down, Clara," Striker said.

  "No, that's all right, Mr. Moss," she said, keeping her eyes trained on the floor in front of her.

  "So, what is it?"

  "I--I--I don't know how to start," Clara said, wringing her chubby hands as she looked up meekly. Striker could see that she had tears in her eyes.

  "Clara," he said in a gentle voice she had never heard before, "take your time. Tell me what's wrong."

  Clara took a deep breath and began. "It's my son, Mr. Moss. Me and my son. 1 have a problem. I don't have anyone, I'm sony. I have to ask you for help. I know if you were to call, then the police might help. They won't listen to me--"

  "Wait a minute, Clara," Striker said, holding up his hand abruptly. She thought he was going to rebuff her.

  'Tell me what you're talking about," he said.

  Standing there, wringing her hands as if she could wash the whole thing away, Clara breathed a sigh of relief and told her boss the entire story of the boys who were tormenting her son.

  "If something doesn't change, Mr. Moss," she finally said, "I'm gonna have to leave."

  "What do you mean, 'leave'?" Striker said. The last thing he wanted right now was to lose her. He didn't have the time it would take to hire someone else. He needed a secretary now that he could trust and rely on. The timing was horrible.

  "I mean," she said hesitantly, staring at her shifting feet, "that I would have to go north, Mr. Moss. I'd have to leave here and go live with my sister."

  Striker didn't have to ask why. He knew her financial situation. It was the way he wanted it, to keep her on a tether, not paying her too much, not paying her too little. Simply buying out her mortgage to the bank wouldn't do either. That would draw attention.

  Striker sat pensively for a few moments with his chin resting on his steepled fingertips. He then asked her a few questions about the thugs. Clara couldn't help becoming excited. This was what she had hoped for.

  "Well, Clara," Striker said finally, "I think the best thing is for you to call the police again. This is something that they should take care of for you. Maybe things will work out."

  Striker took his feet off the desk
and began going through some papers that were on the desk. Clara stood for a few embarrassed minutes before she realized that he was through with her. She said nothing. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the door handle and pulled it closed behind her. The phone on her desk rang mercifully. She pulled it from the receiver and answi_rcJ it as she plopped down into her seat.

  "Gem Star Technology," she said in the same flat voice she had used 10 answer the phone for the past seven years. She was too numbed with disappointment to feel anything. But later she would feel the full weight of his crushing rejection, and the hopelessness of her situation would tear her insides apart.

  They came again that same night. The gang tormented her and her son, banging on the windows and doors, laughing and mimicking the terrified screams they heard from within. Finally she pulled Reggie into a closet and held him close, humming to him in an attempt to drown out the noise. After a while the boys grew tired and left. Clara wondered how long it would be before the gang wanted more, before they broke into the house and ...

  Striker watched them as they left. It wasn't hard to follow the three hoods. They left a trail of broken bottles and headlights, and made plenty of noise. There was one among them who was the obvious leader. He walked slightly behind the others who pranced around him like circus dogs, checking to see that everything they did or said met with his approval. He was the skinniest of the three and not the tallest, but Striker knew he was not only the leader but the most dangerous. He kept his hands in the big front pocket of his large, hooded sweatshirt, where Striker suspected he carried a gun. That was smart, keeping his hands on his weapon, but Striker knew the punk wasn't too smart or he wouldn't be wasting time terrorizing a disabled teenager and his mother.

  Striker kept back and walked down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. He was dressed in dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black sweatshirt. Those who saw him suspected he was crazy. Any white man dressed the way he was and walking in that neighborhood after dark was just asking to get killed.