Peak Oil

by Arno Joubert

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Neil Fight

  Hitchikers

  Mac

  Laiveaux

  Dabbort Creek

  The Bar

  Jailed

  Barman

  Fitch

  Chapter Two

  Alexa in jail

  Dwight Harvey

  Timer

  Ocelot Inn

  Mary-Lou

  Chris Fitch

  Voelkner

  Phone Call

  Words

  Watched

  Diner

  Chapter Three

  Hotel

  Pictures

  Attack

  Harvey

  Refatex

  Becks

  Jet

  The Visit

  Chapter Four

  Canteen

  Ryan

  Passport

  Accident

  Visit

  Diversion

  Procession

  School

  The Talk

  History

  Chapter Five

  Patsy

  Pauline

  The Jog

  Ranch

  Resolve

  Meeting

  Savant

  Lucy Beck

  Arrest

  The Note

  Chapter Six

  Drive

  Ryan and Fitch

  Enter the refinery

  Scout

  Shot

  Rescue

  Neil Allen

  Torture

  Escape

  Laiveaux

  Bruce to Dabbort

  The Rescue

  Chapter Seven

  Car crash

  Bella

  Bruce Bryden

  Voelkner

  Retrieval

  The Call

  Laiveaux arrives

  Skyfall

  Recovery

  They Meet

  Enter Refinery

  Take-out

  Toporov

  The Confession

  Chapter Eight

  Daddy

  Mary-Lou

  The Fire

  Prayer

  Dream

  The Talk

  Shale

  Murder

  Investigation

  Chapter Nine

  Neil Watches

  Follow Doctor

  Neil at Ranch

  Prepare

  Meet Fitch

  Break In

  Reunion

  Jail

  Codes

  Mary-Lou breaks codes

  Last Meal

  Ocelot Pen

  Hospital

  Finish

  Dismiss

  Ryan

  Arrest

  Bitten

  Rebuild

  Let's Talk

  Preview

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gypsy Fair

  Forth Worth, Texas

  The two fighters were surrounded by a rough-looking crowd. Tattooed men wearing white vests and jeans and gold-cord necklaces were slapping their fists into their palms, shouting and jeering. Scantily dressed women wearing too much makeup shrieked one-liners that the snot-nosed kids on their hips shouldn’t have had to hear at such a young age.

  Neil rolled on the ground, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. The crowd around them jostled backward, instantly enlarging the diameter of the ring. They whooped, shouting encouragement to their favorite fighter.

  Neil shook his head and gasped. The guy had sucker-punched him without warning. He wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving behind a brown smudge of caked dust on his forehead. He looked up as his opponent advanced with a sneer, the man’s hands opening and closing as if working on an invisible stress ball.

  He reminded Neil of Bigfoot or the yeti or some fictitious monster you had nightmares about as a kid after staying up late to watch The Twilight Zone. Big and hairy, he had small beady eyes, spaced close together below a unibrow. They darted around in his oversized skull, scrutinizing Neil intently like a predator probing its victim for any potential weaknesses.

  Neil pushed himself up and rolled his head on his shoulders. He spat blood on the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Lucky shot. You won’t get a second.”

  Neil circled the man, keeping his arms to his side. The crowd clapped rhythmically, baying for blood. “Get him Tommy, wallop ‘is ‘ead in.”

  Glancing at the loudmouth in the crowd, Neil made a mental note. Bloody Pete Ramboli. Asshole. He would deal with him later.

  Bigfoot saw his opportunity and lunged, throwing a sharp right. Neil ducked below the blow and retaliated with a right hook to his stomach. The large man doubled over, and Neil swung his body up, the back of his skull landing with a sickening crack on Bigfoot’s chin. The man stood up straight, swinging his arms like a tightrope walker trying to keep his balance. Neil finished him off with a roundhouse left to the jaw.

  Bigfoot corkscrewed to the ground, landing face-first in the dirt. Small puffs of dust billowed up from a flaring nostril, the only sign the hairy ogre was still alive.

  Neil’s face tightened in a pained grimace as he shook his hand. A section of the crowd had rushed toward him, shouting their congratulations and lifting his arms up high. The majority of the people dispersed slowly, muttering and swearing beneath their breaths.

  Two men heaved Neil onto their shoulders and proceeded to parade him around the ever-dwindling circle of onlookers like a prized trophy.

  “Oy, Pete,” Neil yelled at the spectator who had wanted his head bashed in. The man turned around and jutted out his chin, a questioning look on his face.

  Neil punched his finger toward the man. “You’d like to challenge me?”

  The man frowned and grinned sheepishly as he shook his head.

  “If you want to make pissy remarks, be willing to enter the ring; you know the rules.”

  The man curtsied and bowed with a flourish of his arm before turning around on his heel and trotting away.

  “Schmuck,” Neil said as he was lowered to the ground.

  A short, plump, dark-haired woman wearing a miniskirt and stiletto heels started ululating. “Fort Worth’s pride, the Lion of the West, our new champion.” She held his hand aloft. “Neil Allen, undefeated after forty-eight bouts of bare-knuckle boxing and the new title holder.”

  The crowd cheered and pushed forward, each one trying to clap Neil on his back or shake his hand.

  A tall, skinny man with a pockmarked face and a pencil behind his ear handed Neil a rolled-up wad of cash. “Your match fee,” he said. Neil nodded and stuck it into his pocket.

  Alexa sauntered up to Neil and kissed him long and hard before she pulled away and looked into his eyes, breathing huskily. “How do you like my new suntan?”

  He grinned at her. “I needed some time to warm up,” he said, wiping his bleeding knuckles on his jeans. “I stink, and I need a drink.”

  Alexa screwed up her nose and handed Neil his T-shirt. “I don’t mind. I’m used to dirty men.”

  Neil snorted. He loved the small freckles on her nose; they seemed more prominent whenever she was excited. She hardly ever wore makeup, but his aunts had convinced her to wear some lipstick. He thought she looked prettier without it. He pulled the T-shirt over his head and hooked his arm around her waist.

  They ambled along behind the small crowd, heading toward the marquee tent pitched in the middle of the small town of White Settlement, Texas. Neil thrust a protective arm in front of Alexa as a horse and cart raced by, the driver urging the horse forward. They jogged across the raceway before the next one arrived.

  Raucous laughter and loud voices greeted them as they entered the tent. A b
and played an upbeat gypsy tune, and young women were gyrating and swinging their hips to the beat.

  The band stopped playing and people turned to gawk as Neil entered the tent. The throng clapped their hands and cheered as he pushed into the crowd, pulling Alexa along by her hand. He shoved his way to the bar, acknowledging the praises and compliments with a nod as he passed.

  He ordered two beers, lifted his glass to the air, and shouted, “Solk us away from the taddy.”

  He drained his glass and wiped the froth from his lip. The crowd replied with an “Amen” and toasted with their glasses held high in the air. The band started playing again, and the loud conversations continued where they had left off.

  “Mary, bless these weary bones,” Neil said with a groan as Alexa massaged his shoulders. She clucked like a mother hen and dabbed some whiskey onto his grazed knuckles with a Kleenex. The short woman with the miniskirt and high heels noticed them and bustled over.

  She walked up and cupped Neil’s chin. “My darling little nephew. You fought like a true champion.”

  Neil smiled and pecked her on her cheek. “Thanks, Auntie Estelle.”

  She took his hand and placed it flat on her pushed-up bosom. “We have missed you, Neil.” She jerked her head toward the fighting ring. “That monster beat every young lad who had courage enough to face him. He had to be taught a lesson.”

  Neil nodded. “You could have given me a moment to stretch before pushing me in with him.” He wiggled his jaw. “The bozo caught me off guard.”

  The boisterous crowd hushed as the defeated fighter walked into the tent. A path opened for him as he headed straight toward Neil, his pectoral muscles bouncing up and down over a muscled stomach.

  The man stared down at Neil and pointed a stubby finger at him. “They say you’ve never lost a fight.”

  Neil shrugged. “Came close when I was young. I nearly lost this one.” He stood up and faced the man. “You gave me a run for my money.”

  The crowd murmured, and the large man grinned. He stuck out a hand and Neil shook it. “Good fight, Traveler.”

  People cheered and whistled. Neil was the new champion and he had saved the man’s dignity—the best possible outcome anyone could have wished for. There would be no rival clan fights tonight.

  “Amen,” Neil said with a laugh and ordered the man a beer.

  Bubba Bartlett cursed as the tanker truck shuddered and jerked. He eased the vehicle past a sign that read, “Dabbort Creek, 5 Miles Ahead.” He pumped the air brakes and put the truck into neutral, coasting it to a halt on the grassy shoulder next to the blacktop.

  Bubba glanced at the blonde guy beside him. “Shit, man, this is as far as I can take you. I’m out of juice.” He slammed the steering wheel. “Son of a gun, I shouldn’t have tried to skip the last fill.”

  The young man smiled guiltily as if it were his fault.

  Shit. He had always followed Mr. Fitch’s instructions to the T. He had been a Refatex driver for the past three years, and he was doing well. Show me a truck driver whose unemployed wife drives a brand new Benz SLK. Nope, I’m doing better than well. I’m doing A-OK.

  So whatever Mr. Fitch asked of him, Bubba always did, no questions asked. And Mr. Fitch’s instructions had been clear. He had found the young man off Route 288, exactly where Mr. Fitch had told him he would be.

  Bubba was supposed to drop the guy at Mo’s Diner in town; Charlie was waiting to take him up to Mr. Fitch’s estate. But Bubba had been late, and he decided to skip a fill, thought they would make it to Dabbort in time for sure. And now he was going to be even later. And Mr. Fitch didn’t like his drivers being late.

  “Why don’t you fill it from the stuff in the tank?” the blonde guy asked with a stupid smile, jerking his thumb to the tanker trailer at the back.

  Bubba shook his head. “It’s Brent Crude, son. No way I’m goin’ anywhere with that.”

  The young man grinned sheepishly. “Guess I have a lot to learn about the oil business.”

  Bubba chuckled. The poor guy was due for a job interview up at Refatex. This sure as hell wasn’t the best way to be starting a new career working for Mr. Fitch. He glanced at his Rolex. The next tanker wasn’t due for another two hours. Bubba pulled a red lever on the dash, engaging the parking brake, and yanked the key from the ignition. “Nothin’ else to do than hike, I guess.”

  He opened the door and nimbly lowered himself down from the cabin. He checked the output-valve tap and made sure the hydraulic lines were clear, an old habit he had developed over the years. He loved his baby; better to be safe than sorry.

  Bubba glanced over his shoulder at the young blonde man as they plodded into town. “How ya’ keeping up back there?” he hollered.

  The man smiled and gave the thumbs up. He pulled a large duffel bag on wheels, wiping some sweat from his brow with a red bandana. “Just fine, thanks.”

  The fellow was nice. Andrew Jackson. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-four or twenty-five. He was tall, maybe six foot five. Apparently he had travelled Europe for a couple of months, and now his folks wanted him to settle down. The job offer came out of the blue, he said. He had put his CV and a profile photo onto some website. The following day, Mr. Fitch phoned him personally.

  Jackson told Bubba he had been looking for something in the hospitality industry, but Mr. Fitch had made him an offer that was right up his alley. Good ol’ Mr. Fitch, he sure looks after his own. Yessiree.

  Bubba looked up as a red Chevy hatch sped by, and he waved his arms. “C’mon, help a guy out here!” he shouted.

  The car slowed down, and the backup lights came on. Jackson jogged toward it, the large duffel bag swinging behind him as he ran.

  As Bubba jogged closer, Jackson exchanged a greeting with the driver and then laughed and slapped his knee. They spoke in a funny language—Hispanic or some other foreign shit. The young man turned to Bubba and waved him over. “C’mon, we have a lift.”

  A door opened, and they slid into the backseat. Two men turned around and greeted them. “Bonjour, monsieur,” the driver said. “Welcome aboard.”

  Bubba nodded curtly. “Thanks, mister.”

  The driver slammed the car into gear, and they sped off toward Dabbort.

  Mac McAllister cast a furtive glance up the road. The streets were empty. A pale moon shone through the cloudy tendrils drifting in a starless sky. He peered up the hill toward the Ocelot Inn. Probably unoccupied—always was—but the neon sign flashed dutifully on and off with a fluorescent glow.

  Missy never put the darn thing off; she was probably hoping for some walk-in overnighters. He smiled at the two men snoring on the bench. “You boys ain’t giving Missy any business tonight, no siree.”

  She didn’t need the business. She was plenty fine off, if he were to believe the rumor mill. Poor, lonely woman.

  Mac opened the back of the mortuary van. He sauntered to the blonde guy. He was a dead ringer. He heaved the man over his shoulder, dumping him in the back of the van. The other guy was shorter and skinnier. Both were looking the worse for wear, beaten shitless.

  Mac removed the shorter guy’s wallet and passport. He flipped it open, just to make sure. “Reg Voelkner, French citizen.” He nodded, pulled him into the back of the truck, and bound the men’s arms and legs.

  McAllister looked up as a pair of lights bounced up and down on the main strip, a mile away. He glanced at his watch. The next tanker, right on time.

  He slammed the doors and jumped into the driver’s side of the vehicle. He shifted the car in gear and gunned the gas. The car shot forward, spraying the bus stop with flying gravel.

  Mac McAllister lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat, puffing contentedly. He looked up in the rearview and smiled as one of the men groaned. They may be hungover now, but they were going to need a lot of liquid to recover from the beauty treatment he had planned for them.

  Alexa gulped down the tequila and then bit into the lemon. She screwed up her face in disgust,
but the barman had already refilled her glass. This was going to be a long night. She glanced at Neil. He was staring at her, cupping his chin in his hand. She shrugged. “What?”

  He smiled at her with his boyish grin. “You’re beautiful.”

  Alexa leaned back against the bar. “And you’re drunk.”

  He chuckled. “Getting there. Besides, doesn’t make you any less pretty.”

  She folded her arms. “Hey, I’m no pushover, buster.”

  “C’mon, Alex, that’s not what I meant.”

  She licked her lower lip as a stocky man with a skew nose punched Neil playfully on the shoulder and handed him a drink. Neil tore his eyes away from Alexa to accept it.

  Two weeks ago, Neil had suggested they visit his family in Texas, and she had readily accepted.

  They were a boisterous bunch, but they hadn’t taken kindly to Alexa in the beginning. She was a gaje—an outsider. But Neil wasn’t the quintessential gypsy, either. He had joined the army after completing high school, something unheard of in the traveling community.

  He had told her the army was in his blood; wasn’t it what gypsies originally were? Traveling soldiers, mercenaries?

  Alexa's phone rang and she muttered an excuse, scampering to the exit to get away from the noise. She slid her thumb over the phone. “Bonjour, General.”

  “Alexa, my girl. I’m fine, how are you?” General Laiveaux answered in French.

  Alexa smiled, happy to talk to her commander for the first time in weeks. “I’m fine, thank you, General. Getting to know Neil’s family.”

  “Ah, yes,” the general said, sounding distracted. “Quite a fortunate coincidence, my girl. I need your help once again.”

  The old fox, he always had some reason. “Yes, General?” Alexa asked with a frown. “My flight is booked for the day after tomorrow. I’ll be back at the Legionnaire headquarters in two days’ time.”

  “Captain Guerra, the League needs your services now more than ever,” the general said, hesitating a moment before continuing. “But not in France.”

  Alexa snapped her fingers. “Okay, please continue,” Alexa answered, willing Laiveaux to get to his point.

  “Very well, then. We followed up on Metcalfe’s distribution network, and a certain name popped up on several occasions.”

  This information piqued her interest. Senator Robert Metcalfe had run a human trafficking ring; he had made snuff movies of young girls. Interpol was following up on the whereabouts of their parents as well as tracing the recipients of the movies to bring them to justice. “Yes, General?”