Blood Brothers

by Dusty Sharp

  She probably saw me up there.

  NO! Goddammit. There’s no way!

  But what if she did? Even if it was just a sliver of a chance?

  The air rushed out of my lungs in a huge sigh as I admitted to myself what that would mean, if she had seen someone—me—up on the hillside, watching what was going on. Would she think help was coming? Would she know that someone knew about her and her fellow captives? Someone knew. And they would come for her.

  That meant me. If—and again, that’s a big “if”—she did see me up there, she saw me as her salvation.

  But what did I do?

  Nothing. I just watched.

  My stomach turned at the thought of it. I immediately began judging myself. Why hadn’t I charged down that hillside, my sorry little gun blazing, hollering like a banshee, when I first saw those girls and realized what was going on? How had I just sat there, immobilized, watching, while they were being hauled off to god knows where, for the ugliest purposes you could imagine?

  It was fucked up.

  And Joy probably saw me up there. Doing nothing.

  “Goddammit Austin,” I said out loud. Stop thinking “probably.” There’s NO chance she saw me up here!

  Well, almost no chance. Which left that teeny, tiny, little sliver of doubt, that began to once again worm its way back toward probable.

  She would have seen me. And known that I’d done nothing.

  Fuck me! I was driving myself bat-shit crazy over this.

  In the end, I reasoned that I’d had no choice, whether she’s seen me or not. All I had was a shitty little compact 9mm pistol, no match for the rifles, shotgun and handguns wielded by the five men below. I’d have died right along with the knowledge of what had just transpired. If I’d even made it to the bottom of the hill without breaking my neck. More likely I’d have stumbled on a rock or a rattlesnake within the first ten steps of my quixotic charge, and tumbled the rest of the way down like a broken ragdoll.

  Nor could I have hoped to give chase to that van. The ridge route I’d ridden in on came from an entirely different direction than the roads that led to the main gate of the compound. The van would have long disappeared into the maze of northern San Diego county back-roads by the time I made it down to the route it had come in on. Not to mention the big Knucklehead engine in my FLH would have alerted the Rattlers below as soon as I fired it up.

  No, I really hadn’t had a choice other than staying put. And learning what I could.

  But my heart ached for those girls, and the life that awaited them.

  Twelve

  I had sucked as much nicotine as I was likely to get from the ragged nub of the last Backwoods cigar. I hauled myself to my feet with a grunt and the popping of stiff joints, and cast the smoldering cigar nub to the ground alongside its dead brothers. I crushed it out under my boot.

  I picked my way through the boulders back to the pavement, hiked up the road a quarter mile and ducked into the avocado grove to where I had hidden my motorcycle. Rummaging through the saddlebags I found a bottle of water, which I drank greedily, then crushed the empty plastic bottle and returned it to the bag. While I was in there, I dug to the very bottom of the compartment, gripped the edge of a cardboard false bottom with my fingers, lifted it slightly, and pulled my lock-pick set from underneath. I also grabbed a small tool roll before buckling the saddlebag shut.

  Tools in hand, I returned to the overlook at the turn-out and peered over the edge of the drop-off to determine the best route down the slope. The terrain was steep and treacherous. Dark green scrub oaks, blue-gray sagebrush and the deep red bark of manzanita spilled across a canvas of dried yellow grass and great, speckled granite boulders. There was no easy path down, so I stuffed the toolbag in my pocket and started climbing.

  It took me about a half hour to descend the rocky slope, scrambling from boulder to boulder and picking my way through the brush. About half way down I was stopped by an angry, dry rattling sound. I cautiously backed away, and gave the rattlesnake a wide berth as I navigated an alternate route through the chaparral. The slope grew steeper as I descended, and slid the last ten feet in a cascade of decomposed granite, which deposited me about twenty feet from the chain link fence that surrounded the compound.

  I took a moment to observe the setup from up close, staying in the shadow of a scrub oak at the bottom of the slope. The fence line was roughly square in shape. The entry gate was around the corner to my left. To the right was the back of the compound. I could see each of the video cameras I’d spotted earlier, none of which seemed to be pointed in my direction. With the exception of the one mounted at the entrance gate, they were pointed inward, not outward.

  I started working my way around the compound to the right, toward the far end of the small valley, trying to stay mostly in shadows although I could see no signs of life, or other cameras or detection equipment. From the back, all there was inside the fence was the back ends of the three parallel shipping containers, sitting about ten feet apart from one another. I continued around to the far side, opposite the side of the compound I had originally approached. Here the vegetation was more sparse, forcing me to break cover. I stopped as I approached the corner that would have brought me to the front fence line, and the gated entrance. And the camera trained on it.

  From there I couldn’t see much more than I’d seen from the other side, except that now I had a view of the door-end of the Dynasty container—the one set at odds to the others and seemed to be the main facility, from what I’d observed earlier. There was the burn barrel, a few empty beer cans and other crap, and a pair of old lawn chairs. I had a closer look at the small solar array on top of the container, and could make out a couple of small antennas. I could also see a couple of discarded wooden pallets stacked beside the main container, toward the far end.

  Satisfied with my reconnaissance, I worked my way all the way back around to the place where I had descended the hill, as it was closest to the back-end of the main container. I made one last check of the surveillance cameras to confirm none were pointed in my general direction, and approached the fence. I hunkered down next to one of the galvanized fence poles, and opened my tool roll. I selected a pair of Klein cable cutters and went to work on the fence.

  Chain link fences are easier to defeat than they make out in the movies. Hollywood usually shows trespassers cutting each individual wire in a vertical slice, to open up the fence like a zipper. This takes forever and leaves a big, gaping hole to advertise that you’ve been there. Instead, I simply cut the bottom two of the three wire loops that held the chain link tight to the fence pole. Running horizontally along the bottom of the chain link there is usually a heavier gauge tension wire, as there was in this case. I snipped it near the fence pole.

  That’s it. Three cuts.

  I grabbed the bottom of the chain link and pulled it upward like the hem of a skirt. It allowed plenty of room for me to shimmy under. Once inside, I let the chain link fall back in place and hurried toward cover at the back end of the main ocean container.

  I looked back at the chain link fence. There was no visible sign that anyone had come through, other than some scuffle marks in the dirt where I had shimmied under. But the chain link hung from the fence pole flat and unmolested. If you looked closely and knew what you were looking for, you might see that the tension wire and the two fence pole loops were cut. But you’d have to be looking for it.

  I looked up toward the top of the container I was leaning against. It was about eight feet high. Luckily it wasn’t a “high-cube” unit, as those are a couple feet taller. I’m 6 foot 5, and could touch the top of the container fairly easily with a short hop. And back in my Army days I could have just grabbed the edge of the roof of that container and hauled my ass up. But that was quite a few beers ago. Eight feet may as well have been a hundred.

  But I already had a plan.

  Moving to the corner of the container, I peered around and saw the small stack of pallets a few feet awa
y. I checked the cameras again and reassured myself they were all pointed toward the doors of the other containers. And the one at the front gate was blocked from view.

  I quickly moved to the pallets, picked one up, and returned to the back of the container. I leaned the pallet up against the container vertically, so that the horizontal slats of the pallet formed a makeshift ladder. It only went up about four feet, but hauling myself up the remaining four feet was now within the realms of possibility.

  I ain’t gonna lie. It probably wasn’t pretty. I’m sure if the gruntin’, puffin’ and strugglin’ of an aging, long-haired biker with a beer belly pulling himself up onto the top of that container had been caught on one of Tillman’s cameras, it could have gone viral on YouTube.

  But you’re god damn right I made it up there. There was never any question.

  The opposite end of the container was forty feet away. I was already on my belly from the haul-up, I remained so and low-crawled toward the solar arrays, cameras and antennas at the other end. I was pretty sure there were no cameras pointed in my direction but there was no sense in making a billboard out of myself.

  The first thing I did was disable the antennas. There were two of them. I wasn’t sure if they were for cellular or satellite communications, two-way radio, or part of the SETI project. No matter. I found where the coax cables attached to the base of each antenna and disconnected them. I had no clue if Tillman had set up a live feed from those cameras, but I’d disabled any way for the signals to get out.

  Next I pointed the cameras at the sky. That was even easier than cutting their cables. I just grabbed them on their swivel mounts and pointed them up, away from the containers. Glanced over at the entry gate, and the camera mounted there, and decided not to even fuck with it. I wasn’t going anywhere within its view.

  With cameras and comm’s down, I walked casually back to the other end of the container, swung my legs over the side, shimmied down to the pallet and climbed back down to solid ground.

  Now I had the run of the place.

  Thirteen

  I walked directly to the doors on the container that Joy and the other girls had been pulled from. These were standard shipping containers with double doors and heavy vertical locking bars with heavy, cast steel levers. The levers locked flat against the door, secured with a massive padlock.

  If these locks used one of the Club’s standard keys, it would have been a joke. But I pulled out my key ring and tried the easy method first, for shits and grins. None of my keys fit. No matter.

  I’d learned how to pick locks in the Special Forces. Despite what you see in action movies, our first choice for opening a door wasn’t always blasting the son of a bitch to smithereens with a shape charge. If there was any chance of a few haji’s hunkering on the other side with AK’s pointed at the door, of course we’d give ‘em the Shock and Awe, as ol’ Dubya might have said. But most of the time a more subtle entry was warranted. No sense waking up the whole damned village.

  Besides, I had left my shape charges at home.

  So I unfolded my pick set and went to work. I was a little bit rusty at first—applying too much pressure on the tension wrench, a bit too aggressive raking the pins. But I soon got the hang of it, the tumbler spun and the thing popped open. Like riding a bike.

  The hinges moaned as I swung the doors open. My vision hadn’t yet adjusted to the darkness inside when the smell of shit hit me like a wall. My eyes started to water as I pulled out a snot rag and covered my nose. I stepped inside.

  Once inside and out of the morning sun, my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the container’s interior. The first thing I noticed—besides the smell of shit—was how tidy and orderly the space was. A row of old mattresses lined one side of the container. They were the small ones, probably twin bed size. But just the mattresses, no frames. The beds themselves looked old, piss-sstained here and there, but not really in that bad of shape.

  The heart breaker was the blankets. They were neatly folded and sitting at the foot of each mattress. Apparently made so by each bed’s occupant after waking up; the only power they still had to exercise free will, to keep a small sliver of order in their lives.

  Along the opposite wall was a stack of bottled water, maybe four cases, still bound in their clear plastic stretch-wrap. Except for the top one, whose plastic wrapping hung open, most of the bottles missing. Next to the water was a stack of canned food. Ravioli, Spaghetti-o’s, beef stew.

  Near the top of the walls on either side, a series of small holes admitted fresh air and small slivers of daylight. Though they were doing a poor job of dissipating the odor.

  The stench intensified as I moved further into the container. At the far back of the space there were several 5 gallon buckets, an opened bail of Costco toilet paper, and a large 50-gallon plastic pickle barrel. You can guess what the smaller buckets were used for. Two of them were about half full of shit and piss. I have a strong stomach but I just about blew chunks.

  The larger barrel was simply a trash receptacle. Empty water bottles and food cans.

  I hurried back down the length of the container and stepped back outside, gulping great lung-fulls of clean, crisp morning air.

  The other two parallel containers were was set up similarly to the first, though they didn’t look like they had been recently occupied. But I got more practice with my lock picks. I closed the doors and re-locked all three. Then I moved to the front of the Dynasty container, which sat at a right angle to the other three. Headquarters in this makeshift prison.

  This time I had the padlock open in under ten seconds. I was getting better with practice.

  Fourteen

  Interior lights flickered to life as I opened the doors. My muscles tensed, my breathing stopped, and my eyes instinctively swept the perimeter of the door opening. I saw the light switch mechanism, a mechanical swing-arm switch that was activated by the door opening, it’s wire routed directly to the overhead fixtures. There were no other switches or proximity sensors on the door—nothing to trigger an alarm or booby trap. No cameras trained on the door from the inside.

  I stepped inside. Heavy duty metal shelves lined both walls. Electronic equipment filled the first section of shelves along the left side. There was a group of deep cycle batteries sitting on the bottom shelf, wired into a solar charging control box that sat next to them. Cables ran from the control box to a breaker panel, which distributed power to the various outlets, lights, cameras and other electrical equipment. Above it, on a shelf at counter height, sat a computer monitor, keyboard, external hard drives and various other computer components. The monitor was dark, but little green status lights on all of the equipment suggested everything was in working order. I moved along, I would be back to this spot though.

  Further along was a well-stocked armory. As I’d suspected, I recognized one of the FAL rifle crates from our recent shipment, with “Indústria de Material Bélico do Brasil” and IMBEL’s gear-shaped logo printed on it. I lifted the lid and saw that it was still full, with several of the top row of rifles stripped of cosmoline, ready to use. The shelves above held an assortment of other guns, including a couple of Glock .40 caliber pistols in their factory boxes, and plenty of ammunition for everything.

  At the back of the container there was a stack of extra mattresses and blankets, similar to those I’d seen in the other containers. I checked out the shelves on the opposite wall as I worked my way back toward the front of the container. These mostly contained stacks and stacks of bottled water and canned food, a bin of used clothing that looked like it had been gleaned from the bargain bin at the back of a thrift store. There was a small dorm-sized refrigerator. I opened it and saw a few cold bottles of Coors, nothing else. I grabbed one one of the Banquet Beers and twisted the top off. My turn, I thought as I chugged about half the bottle in one pull, finishing with a satisfying belch.

  I returned to the electronic equipment at the front of the container and moved the mouse. The monitor lit up with a f
licker, to display a login screen asking for a password.

  Fuck!

  I needed to know what was in that god damned computer. What the hell would Tillman be using for a password out here? I figured I had some time to find out. Even if someone in Tillman’s inner circle noticed the video feed was down, Riverside was a good hour away. I looked around and saw there was a stool to sit on for whoever was working at the computer, tucked under the shelf. I pulled it out and eased my bulk down onto it. It was nice to take a load off, if nothing else. I finished the Coors in one more long pull.

  Tillman probably had this thing set up to go into lock down after a number of failed login attempts. How many? Five? Three? Knowing Tillman it probably only allowed one attempt. He was sort of a one-chance motherfucker. I needed to make my best guess first.

  I sat there and thought about it for about ten minutes. Neither Tillman nor anybody else in the Rattlers was that sophisticated. Using cryptocurrency for our transactions was about the most high tech thing the club did. And that part of our operation was mostly due to my own influence, as it was me who had gotten us into using Bitcoin in the first place. A hacker friend of mine named Marcus, who I’d met through Hank a few years back, had gotten me interested in it.

  But I didn’t expect any sort of high level cryptography protecting this computer. Tillman would want something he and a couple of his goons—probably Sunny at least—could remember without having to write it down.

  After some careful consideration, I settled on my best guess and typed in 6…0…1…p…o…s…s…e. My finger hovered over the “enter” key.