by John R Cuneo
Tom told us he had helped Old Bill Feather use the forge and the other equipment in the blacksmith shop on several occasions, and soon he had the furnace lit. The charcoals quickly took on a bright orange glow. While the furnace heated up, he looked through the shop and found a crucible that would be perfect for melting steel. Now we needed a few pieces of scrap metal for the crucible. Tom and I were both wearing protective gear to shield us from the intense heat of the furnace.
We took the broken metal bracket and placed it firmly down into a bed of sand that would act as a mold for the liquid metal to adhere to. It was interesting to watch the scraps of metal liquefy in the crucible, and it was at that time I knew I would be turning my .22 caliber pistol into scrap metal. We carefully poured the liquid metal over the broken bracket. To our astonishment, the sand holding everything together worked perfectly, allowing the molten metal to bond with the broken pieces of the old bracket.
Tom was quite proud of our handiwork and jokingly suggested we could become blacksmiths to supplement our income. Carolyn laughed as she excused herself and went back into the cabin. After we cooled the metal bracket in a bucket of water, Tom said his goodbyes and drove back to his home. I, on the other hand, retrieved the pistol from my truck and began to disassemble it, placing the pieces into the crucible. The blacksmith shop was filled with all manner of tools, including a large band saw, which I used to cut the main body of the revolver into smaller pieces that would fit into the crucible.
In time, the revolver was completely turned into liquid metal, which I poured into a mold made of sand that yielded a common-looking bar of scrap steel. I then went about shutting down the forge and securing the door closed for the night. I felt comfortable knowing there was no trace of the pistol left. It was time to go into the cabin and treat my shoulder wound.
In the cabin, the smell of homemade soup permeated the space. I gave Carolyn a hug and kiss and said I needed her help with something. I told her the tale of the loose metal rod and my shoulder. Her demeanor instantly changed to one of concern and worry about my injury. “Take that shirt off right now. I want to see what you did,” she said, and as I removed the shirt, we walked into the master bathroom, where we had a supply of first-aid items. “Good heavens, Jack,” Carolyn said. “That left shoulder of yours just seems to take one beating after another.”
She saw the extent of the damage and suggested we go to the area hospital to have it thoroughly cleaned and stitched closed. After the day I had had, I was in no mood to argue with her, so I agreed but insisted she drive.
“Of course, I’ll drive,” Carolyn said. “But first let me just wipe the wound area with some disinfectant and at least clean the dried blood off.” A short time later, we walked into the emergency room entrance at our local hospital. Several smiling faces greeted us before I was whisked into a small side room for treatment.
Sitting in his office 550 miles away in Los Angeles, José Vega finished a long conversation with his contacts in South America. He had been informed that in two days, he would be expected to have the $10 million in cash if he wanted the coveted position of being the number-one cocaine supplier in the country. José had agreed to meet the men at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas, where he would then take them to the cash. José had also been reminded that if he did not have the money, he would be sorry he was ever born. If anything went wrong during the meeting in Las Vegas, he would never see another sunrise.
Carolyn and I spent approximately one hour at the emergency room having my wound taken care of. I had told the attending physician an old sword blade had fallen off the shelf while I was working in the blacksmith shop. She did not seem to believe me.
“We purchased the Feather homestead, and it was my first time using the forge to melt scrap steel,” I said. “You’re probably lucky this is the only injury you’ve sustained,” the physician said. “And, of course, old boys with even older toys are apt to get hurt from time to time,” Carolyn said.
The wound on my shoulder took eleven stitches to close, and I got a tetanus shot and a prescription for pain pills. It was a quiet ride back to the cabin. Neither of us had much to say as we drove to our home in the woods. The sun had gone down, and the sky was full of stars. It was a perfect evening for a campfire. As was her custom, Carolyn did not come outside until the fire was roaring and blazing into the sky. This evening, she had two cups of hot chocolate that we sipped as we sat back and enjoyed our private planetarium. “So how was the drive to Gallup?” asked Carolyn.
“It was pretty quiet,” I told her. “I stopped in St. John’s to use the restroom at the convenience store, then I drove directly to the storage facility, which was on the frontage road and pretty isolated. The facility was rather small, and I didn’t see any security cameras on the property.” “How many boxes of cash did you bring home?”
I had to stop and think for a moment. I honestly could not remember how many boxes I had loaded into the truck. There were enough to completely fill the truck bed, with one additional box going in the back seat. Both of us glanced to where I had parked the truck. It sat just to the side of the blacksmith shop.
“I guess tomorrow after we get up and have some breakfast, I’ll move the truck next to the access door, and we can take our time putting those boxes down into the bunker,” I said. “If your shoulder is still hurting, it doesn’t matter how long the boxes sit in the truck. They are safe there. Everything is locked in, away from prying eyes,” Carolyn said.
After a few minutes of quiet reflection watching the stars overhead, she asked, “How many boxes do we have now?” “I really don’t know,” I told her. “We need to take inventory, don’t you think?” She took me by the hand and said, “I think we have plenty of cash, honey, and besides, enough is enough.”
Chapter 19
No Money No Funny
Agent Lank Tygard was visibly upset with the news from the Los Angeles office regarding José Vega. Ever since the FBI had arrested the lawyer who changed documents for José, his associates had been quietly disappearing, and now it seemed that José himself had vanished into thin air. Law enforcement was going after everything that had José’s name attached to it. Businesses, properties, vehicles, bank accounts—all that was missing was José. It seemed that when José had gotten wind of his lawyer’s arrest, he grabbed as much cash as he could get his hands on and beat a path over to Las Vegas. His plan was to pay the drug cartel the $10 million he had promised them, then disappear with the rest of the cash to southern Mexico, where he had a villa overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
Agent Tygard and Detective Gore were working overtime, turning over every lead they had to find José. As a result of his tireless investigation, Detective Gore found a connection between Nicholas Salazar and two people of interest who still worked at NAU. The woman in question was none other than the food worker who had served Professor Wilock and in turn contacted the Salazar family, giving them the name of Detective Gore. The second person of interest was a male food worker who would ingratiate himself with the older female faculty members and try to pick up bits and pieces of information that might be of use to the Salazar family.
With the assistance of the FBI, two warrants were issued for the arrests of the food service workers that had been identified as acquaintances of the Salazar family and possible co-conspirators in the sale of narcotics and money laundering. The plan was to interrogate the two people and charge them with long-term prison sentences if they did not cooperate. Detective Gore was also successful in procuring the warrant for telephone records associated with both workers at their homes and in their offices at the university.
After a full day of rest, my shoulder felt much better, so before lunch, Carolyn and I moved the truck to the entrance of our bunker. We carefully took one box at a time and lowered each down into the shelter. Once all the boxes had been placed safely into the shelter, we opened and inspected the contents, making sure th
ere were no narcotics. Then we counted and numbered each box, creating separate piles for boxes containing coins and for boxes containing the Rolex watches. Carolyn removed one of the ladies’ watches and asked if she could have it.
“Of course,” I said, and helped her remove the timepiece from its box and place it on her wrist. “That is quite a stunning timepiece. Just remember, if anyone asks, your grandmother left it to you.”
Carolyn looked at me. “Really? That’s what I’m supposed to say?”
“Yes,” I told her. “Don’t tell anyone you purchased it. People will want to know more specifics about where you bought it and how much you paid for it. This way, it’s just a gift.”
“And speaking of gifts,” Carolyn said, “I think we should take some time and do a more thorough inventory of all the gifts we have down here. We have plenty of room. Why don’t we start with the boxes of coins?”
We opened the boxes one by one and separated the coins into two groups, one being silver and the other gold. We looked at the individual coins, trying to determine what the value would be if we sold them to a coin dealer. Before setting the repacked boxes aside, we selected two gold coins to take with us and sell when we returned to the valley.
Looking at the stack of boxes containing cash, I started a list that named the locations of where we had retrieved them and the number of boxes we had collected. First on the list was the Phoenix storage facility, where I had retrieved twenty-four boxes of cash. The second location was the storage facility in Flagstaff, where again we retrieved twenty-four boxes of cash. The third location was in Amarillo, Texas, where we had picked up the smaller boxes of coins, totaling twenty-six in all.
“I’m quite hungry. We need to go to lunch. We can finish this later,” Carolyn said as we did our inventory. “Sure, I’m starving,” I said.
We secured the bunker, then drove into town for a bite to eat.
As he drove through the heavy traffic on the Las Vegas strip, José Vega made his way to McCarran International Airport for his appointment to pick up the three representatives of the South American cartel. He had no idea what these people looked like. He had only been told to wait at the baggage claim at one o’clock in the afternoon and that the men knew what he looked like.
Knowing people were looking for him in Los Angeles, José felt quite safe, walking without any concern for his well-being through the airport complex on his way to baggage claim. At the appointed time, José scanned the crowds of people filing in to pick up their luggage. A man’s voice from behind said, “You must be José Vega,” with a very heavy Spanish accent.
José was a bit startled at how easily the three men had come up behind him without being detected. “Yes, that’s right. I am José Vega. And who are you?”
The three men took a moment to look José up and down. One of them carefully ran his hands over José’s chest and back, checking him for any type of listening device.
“All you need to know is that if we don’t have that money in the next hour, you will wish you had never been born.” José stepped back. “Calm down. You’ll have the money soon.”
“That’s very good,” said one of the men. “Now let’s get going.”
They made their way out of the baggage claim and to José’s car. Soon they were on their way to the storage shed. During their drive to the shed, one of the men in the back seat tapped José on the shoulder.
“We should all go to one of the famous Nevada brothels while we’re in town,” the man said. They laughed. “How much farther?” asked one of the men.
“The money is in a secure location about six miles north of Las Vegas on Interstate 515, and we should be there in the next ten or fifteen minutes,” José said.
After the car exited the interstate, they made their way up the frontage road until he came to the storage facility. “What the fuck is this?” asked one of the men. “I thought the money was in a private location?”
“This is private. And it’s secure,” José told the man. “And in a few minutes, you’ll be $10 million richer.” “Good,” said the man. “Now let’s get the money.”
José keyed in the access code, and there was a moment of silence as they waited for the gates to open. When they did, José breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good, thought José, and now let’s find the storage unit. He looked at the business card in his pocket; the unit they were searching for was B-217.
“Your money is just up ahead on the right,” José said.
“It better be,” the leader of the three said.
After enjoying a lunch in town at one of our favorite cafés, we drove back to the ranch and continued our inventory of the remaining boxes. “Where did we leave off?” I asked Carolyn. She went over to the clipboard. “With the boxes from Amarillo.”
“I remember where we left off. I was just testing you to see if you did,” I said.
“I think you need a nap,” she replied. The next entry to our list was Albuquerque, New Mexico, and fourteen boxes of cash. I gave Carolyn a puzzling look.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I must be getting confused. I don’t remember where in the world these other boxes came from.” Carolyn put a check mark on the sixteen boxes that I’d retrieved in Gallup, New Mexico. Then she looked at me. “Remember when we were looking at the bunker up in Kingman?” “I do now,” I said.
“When we were finished with the tour of the bunker, we decided to head up to Las Vegas and the locker just north of town that had sixteen boxes.”
Those sixteen boxes were stacked neatly against our wall.
“I wonder how long it’ll take for someone to miss all of these boxes of cash,” she said.
“I read an article in a survival magazine that talked about using a small food storage machine to draw all the air out of a sealed package, which enabled the contents to last for years because there was no air touching the food. I was wondering if it might be worthwhile to take some of the cash and repackage it in air-free packets? I know it would take some time, but if we did repackage $2 or $3 million in cash, it would be another layer of protection in case there was a structural failure of the bunker,” I said.
“That’s a good idea,” Carolyn said. So, when we were done with today’s inventory, I would try and find out as much as I could about the air-free packaging system.
Looking around, the three men cautiously exited the car and waited for José to open the storage-unit door. As he inserted the key into the lock, he held his breath, then turned the key. The lock snapped open.
“Here is your money, gentlemen,” José told them. He removed the lock and opened the door, and as he did so, he stepped out of the way, letting the three enter the storage unit. Without warning, two of the men grabbed José by the collar of his suit and dragged him into the empty storage shed. “Is this some kind of a fucking joke?” one asked.
José looked around the shed in total disbelief. That son of a bitch Nicholas Salazar. He must’ve worked with someone else to pull this off.
José broke free from the two men and walked around the inside of the shed. “This must be a mistake—the money has to be here.”
“There’s no money here, you cocksucker,” the leader shouted at José. “Now, I told you if you didn’t have the money, you were going to pay with your life.”
“It must be a mistake. The money has to be in one of these units,” José begged.
“Well, you should’ve checked and made sure you had the fucking money before you made the deal.”
José felt the long, cold blade of a knife plunge into his back just below his left ribs. There was another sharp pain as a second blade entered his chest, scraping its way between two of his ribs. The leader produced a knife from his pocket and ran the blade across José’s throat, causing an eruption of blood. José’s limp body hit the floor of the storage unit. “Take the keys out of his pocket
, and let’s get the fuck out of here,” said the leader.
Then, out of nowhere, police vehicles roared from both directions up to the door of the storage shed.
“Put your hands up!” rang out a voice over a loudspeaker. “You are completely surrounded. Keep your hands where we can see them.”
One of the men had no intention of putting his hands up or being arrested, and in a flash, he ran down the driveway between the two rows of storage units.
The voice over the loudspeaker roared, “Stop, or we will shoot!”
“Go fuck yourself!” were the last words the man spoke before he was dropped in his tracks by two bullets fired from police revolvers.
The other two men did as they were told, putting their hands up. Before the police could get to them, they both agreed to keep their mouths shut and blame everything on their dead friend. As they were taken into custody, they were handcuffed and frisked for weapons. They were also read their rights, then placed in separate police cars before being transported to jail.
Sitting at his desk at the FBI building in Phoenix, Agent Tygard was nearing his wits’ end trying to figure out what had happened to José Vega when suddenly his phone rang. “This is Agent Tygard,” he said.
In a matter of seconds, Agent Tygard’s face turned from disappointment to disbelief. The telephone call was from his counterpart in Las Vegas. “That’s right, Agent Tygard, we have José Vega and three other men here in Las Vegas. The only problem is Vega and another man are both dead. José Vega was identified at the McCarran Airport by an undercover agent at the baggage claim area. They were actually waiting for another person of interest we’d received a tip about.” Agent Tygard was so happy to hear the news that he got in touch with Detective Gore and shared the information with him.
