by Vince Milam
“What about our potential tail?” Jess asked.
“We’ll know soon enough.”
“And if we’re followed? Shaking them will be difficult given the limited options for road travel.”
I stopped and reached for her hand. She smiled and gripped and cocked her head. The low light emphasized just how fine she looked. Which made expressing my next declaration more difficult. It would break any spell we’d generated.
“If we’re followed, I’ll handle it. If they mean harm, we have entered an arena all too familiar, Jess.”
“You’re making me a little nervous. If we’re being tailed, fine. It’s not the end of the world.”
“You may be right. Let’s find out.”
Light rain fell again as tourists and locals wandered past our parked car. We locked eyes.
“Here’s the deal,” she said. “You keep insinuating there’s the potential for something larger at play. I’m not buying it. If we’re tailed, the right approach is to behave. No drug purchases, no wild sex in the back seat, no blasting away at road signs with our pistols. They report back to Elliot how boring we are and hardly worth his time.”
“Right. I’m with you. Although it’s hard to refrain from road sign target practice as we fly along. One of my favorite pastimes.”
She returned my smile but with less frivolity.
“Go ahead and expand on your concern. The whole ‘if they mean harm’ thing. I’m an ex-cop. So lay it on me.”
Thin ice. I had no desire to reveal my past’s violent aspects. None. I’d dealt with plenty of hitters. Hired assassins and others as bounty hunters looking to claim the one million bucks for my head on a stick.
“I’m just saying let’s exercise caution. We’re dealing with an uber-wealthy speed and coke head. Let’s be cautious. That’s all.”
She stared through the windshield and chewed her lower lip. The scent of aromatic-infused soap filled the car as I admired her profile.
“Before you start the car, let’s take the worst-case scenario,” she said. “They mean us harm in one form or the other.”
She turned her head, one eyebrow raised. Her face lacked any sign of fear or rising panic. A matter-of-fact look that expected a factual response.
“Then I’ll deal with it.” Man, this was thin, thin ice. “Jess, let’s just say it’s an operational area I’m familiar with.”
Chapter 12
I fired up the handheld’s GPS and performed a quick search.
“Rainbow Falls.”
“What and where is that?” she asked.
“A tourist attraction at the edge of town. If the gray Ford follows us, let’s get to a crowded public place.”
“I like it. We can confront them with loads of witnesses around.”
“Great minds think alike.” I started the car and threw another smile her way. “Should I slip on the T-shirt? It might blind them if I approach.”
“Listen to Mr. Fashion. Do you own anything other than jeans and shorts?”
“There’s a tutu I break out on occasion.”
We eased through pedestrians and slow traffic, following the GPS directions. As we turned onto the road headed toward Rainbow Falls, the gray sedan appeared behind us.
“We have company,” Jess said, window down as she stared into the side mirror.
“Yep.”
The road held a fair amount of traffic for the two miles to the waterfall’s parking lot entrance. We turned in among other vehicles coming and going. A couple of small tour buses parked in designated spots. There were more departures than arrivals as daylight faded. An empty spot appeared, and we slid into it. The gray car stopped short and parked at the paved lot’s gravel edge. Game on.
“Let me go confront them,” I said.
“Allow me the privilege. I’ll exit this car to have a little chitchat with them. If it’s a couple of sleuthhounds, I’ll ask a few questions and get BS answers. But at least we can establish a benign tail.”
We went together. At a fifty-foot distance, alarm bells began to ring loud and shrill. No fight-or-flight kicked in, no urge to draw and fire or take cover. The overwhelming emotion—anger. Fury at someone putting me in this position. Anger at here we go again, anger at a great day with a great woman on a Hawaiian island corrupted by this crap. I stopped and gripped Jess’s arm, halting her as well. These were hitters, stone-cold killers.
The one in the passenger seat had leaned forward with his right arm reaching behind him. With a smooth move, the same arm returned to his lap. He’d pulled a pistol from his back waistband. I knew the movement well. The driver’s shoulder lifted then rested at his front. He’d pulled his weapon from the console.
But it wasn’t the weaponry extraction that confirmed their profession. It was in the eyes. Cold. Emotionless eyes in expressionless faces. Here to do a job. Kill someone. Another day at the office.
“I saw it too,” Jess said. She slid her hand into the purse, no doubt with a grip on the .45. “They hold heat. Both produced weapons as we approached.”
She didn’t mention the eyes, the countenance of our adversaries. Not unexpected—she hadn’t stared into those eyes too damn many times in the past. And stare I did, locking eyes with one and then the other. Two dead men, killed through their own actions. Yeah, I’d pull the trigger, but their efforts were the cause. Cause and deadly effect, assholes.
“Let’s edge backward for a few steps,” I said. “Gain a little more distance. Then turn and walk back toward the car.”
We did. Children dashed past, tourists called, more vehicles pulled out of parking spaces as others waited for them to complete the maneuver. The day wrapped up as folks experienced their last tourist attraction before a relaxed evening. At the car, I asked Jess to join me by the front bumper. No confinement inside a vehicle until a plan was established.
“I cannot believe the lunatic sent hitmen after us,” Jess said as she cast another glance toward the Ford.
“I don’t think he sent them after us. They’re after me. I broke into his data center. You called it his office. Krupp knows, or at least suspects, it was me.”
She stared back wide-eyed and skeptical.
“And just how did you do that, and why did you do that?”
“Let’s leave the how. I did it to acquire information on his business model. No apologies.”
“It’s called breaking and entering. It’s also called illegal.”
“I didn’t physically enter and this isn’t the time for details. He has no reason to send killers after you. They’re after me. So I want you to stay here. I’ll drive off, alone.”
She threw another glance at the Ford. I could sense our relationship, whatever we’d developed over the last several hours, swirl the drain. Man, this situation pissed me off.
“There are two reasons that won’t happen,” she said. “First, you don’t know it’s only you. They could split up and leave each of us without someone to cover our backs.”
I appreciated her sentiment. Teamwork, covering your partner. Although it could have come from cop days instead of affection toward me.
“Secondly, this is a police matter. We have their rear ends frozen within a tourist parking lot. A quick 911 call and in short order several squad cars will surround them.”
Here the great ugliness reared its head. A slice of me uncovered, exposed. A dark and violent side engaged with death and destruction. Not a foundation for a relationship. A deal-breaker. But there it was and no point hiding it. Killers had assembled.
She’d initiated a 911 call when I placed my hand over her phone.
“Please. That won’t end it.”
“The hell it won’t. They’ll find weapons on those guys, do a background check, and then haul them away.”
“That won’t end it.”
Forehead furrowed, eyes crinkled, she waited for elaboration.
“I’ve been in these situations before, Jess. There’s only one way to handle this. You stay here. I’ll
take care of it.”
“Just what does that mean?”
We locked eyes for a full five seconds.
“I’m going to end it. Please don’t call the cops. If I drive away and see one of them exit the Ford, I’ll throw it into reverse and get you. Then we’ll figure out a plan B.”
Another five-second staredown.
“There are innumerable things about this I don’t like. Personal things included.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
I shot the two assassins an eye-lock and a slow nod. A gauntlet laid; challenge presented. I got into the car, backed out, and kept a keen eye on the rearview mirror. They both stayed in the Ford as it rolled past Jess. She stood unflinching and resolute. I watched the mirror as she faded away in more ways than one.
Chapter 13
I’d formulated a plan even as Jess and I talked. Or rather stared. The key unknown was weaponry. I could outshoot them with pistols. No doubt. Hitters worked close, within feet of their victims. I wouldn’t let that happen, so marksmanship at a decent pistol distance would dictate victory. Advantage, Case Lee. But if those guys had rifles, things would swing their way. A risk. A damn high risk. But a couple of days had passed since Krupp had called and threatened me. Sufficient time for hired assassins to assemble. And the typical hitter wouldn’t arrive with long-range weapons. Their business model relied on the up-close hit. Guaranteed results. I’d risk it.
The other item for consideration—and another marker in Case Lee weird-world—was body disposal. I was on a US island. One I didn’t know well. And the discovery of two dead guys had me trapped. Trapped with the potential of Jess having called the cops regardless of my admonitions. A link formed between me and the two hitters. Not good.
There were three ways out of Hilo. The first backtracked around the north side, back up the coast and through Waimea. The second was a quiet highway through the island’s center, climbing through high, barren lava fields south of Mauna Kea. An obscure gravel road off that highway had a lot going for it. Except for hiding the bodies.
I drove back into Hilo, the Ford now on my tail. They clearly saw no point disguising their intent. I fought to focus, failed, and slipped back into short ruminations on how quick things could get so strange. Two dead guys followed me. What to do with their remains? What a weird-ass way to wander through life.
I headed twenty miles south, toward the active lava flows of the Kilauea volcano. It had flowed southeast for several years from its caldera ten miles inland. Long rivers and strings of molten lava now cascaded into the ocean. An amazing sight, and one attracting tourists and volcanologists from around the world. Thank God I’d read about it and studied a few maps while lounging on the beach. I doubted the two killers behind me had followed suit.
A couple of miles from the coast, a large, inexorable molten rock flow had devastated a now-evacuated subdivision of sparse housing. My hunting zone. They’d follow me. Dusk began turning into darkness. The GPS displayed roads, now closed, leading into the abandoned housing area. I picked one at random. They followed, headlights now on. These guys were making no attempt at stealth or subterfuge. The three of us understood beyond a shadow of a doubt what was going down.
My headlights shone against large concrete barriers. End of the road. The trailing vehicle remained several hundred yards behind me. Official State of Hawaii danger signs and warnings and trespassing threats were strewn about the area. I slammed the brakes, cut the engine, and hauled ass. A dead sprint, past the barriers, and toward the unknown.
Distance and darkness were my friends. They afforded the opportunity to suss the enemy, gain tactical knowledge, craft a plan for the killing floor. A two-hundred-yard sprint ended at a curve in the asphalt neighborhood road. I dropped behind a patch of neglected landscape plants and expected the silhouettes of two running men. Nope. The trunk light at their vehicle illuminated bad news: they both pulled scoped rifles.
The evening was dead quiet except for a strange low-frequency growl at my back, deep and menacing and unlike anything I’d heard before. Flowing lava. Against the bizarre noise signature came the sound of two semiautomatic rifles chambering rounds.
Bad news on several levels. Their weapons provided a distinct firepower advantage and—if equipped with night-vision scopes—the ability to see. The half-moon and starlight from minimal light pollution provided me adequate vision, though not compared with modern electronics. Electronics mounted on high-powered rifles.
Equally disconcerting, or more so, was their demeanor, their movements. Run-of-the-mill killers, with their propensity for in-your-face hits, would have scrambled after me. Not these guys. Alarm bells screamed with the realization these weren’t average hitters for hire. These cats carried an ex-military air. Ex-special forces. Bounty hunters. Oh, man.
It didn’t make any sense. Krupp, the bounty—I saw no connection whatsoever. But I’d been pursued numerous times by bounty hunters. They focused on my mainland whereabouts. Sure as hell not on the Big Island of Hawaii. It was too discordant, too strange. I had no option but to shake it off, pronto. Get focused and deal with these two, the danger factor now maxed. Rock, hard place, Case, ol’ buddy. Or hot lava, hard place. Throw the kill switch, get clinically mean, and dust off those terminating skill sets. Death ruled the immediate, and I was part and parcel of the scene. Irrelevant head noise disappeared. Kill or be killed time, survive or die. Surety and conviction toward a single outcome swelled—it wouldn’t be Case Lee going down.
A casual trunk lid slammed, and they were heading my way at a slow jog, cautious. They stopped prior to passing the first patch of untended landscaping. Raised their weapons and scoped. Night-vision scopes. And a professional tactical approach to the hunt, aware I was armed with, at best, a pistol. They wouldn’t be bushwhacked by jogging past hidey-holes. Son of a bitch. I eased away from my spot and once again hauled ass. Put a quarter mile between us. And entered a hellscape.
An indescribable aroma permeated everything. Not the sulfurous emissions near an active volcano’s caldera. No, a subtle and strange burnt smell. Burnt rock. There was sufficient light to capture a bizarre terrain. Black, black surfaces stretched for a mile, ominous under the moonlight, with the intermittent red-orange glows of slow-flowing lava. Cracks as vents, raw surface fissures with ghostly mist rising. Water vapor or other gases, unknown. What I did know was I didn’t want to risk breathing too much of it.
Intermixed within the burnt-scape were husks of structures, houses, half-burned and in a slow state of collapse. I had no experience, no clue as to how best to navigate the terrain before me. Yet I had chosen the battleground, a place where any violent traces would be covered, melted, dematerialized. At my back were two human hunters, intent on putting a bullet or three in my head. And very little time to position myself.
I headed toward one of the collapsed houses. The heat increased, ovenlike. Now within the lava field, the surface appeared as smooth, billowing sheets, layered. On the left, a small flow. A blister burst in slow motion, red-yellow molten rock flowed and cooled, then another underneath it repeated the process. Jet-black cake icing swirled, all movement at a foot or two per minute. And hot, hot. The burnt rock smell was joined by the odor of burnt rubber. The bottom of my shoes. Another flow to the right eased along as an amoeba under a microscope—slowly reaching, extending. The nearby lava folded, a new black surface cooled, and a new extension pushed outward, inexorable and beyond any and all human control. Nature reigned; sovereign power ceded to the earth’s rule.
Underfoot, a strange sound akin to walking on Styrofoam. What it boded for footing and surface thickness, unknown. I approached the collapsed structure, beyond relieved at spotting a quarter of the house’s foundation still intact. Collapsed and charred roof timbers along with random lengths of blackened lumber had been laid and leaned on the small piece of concrete sanctuary. I made my way there, each step into the unknown. A final long leap and onto the foundation. Hustled into the timbers and got low
, hidden, the heat less intense. And waited.
They appeared at the edge of the active lava field, halted, and searched with their night-vision riflescopes. My initial concern was they’d take a viable alternative. Pull back, wait. Wait for daylight. Or return to their vehicle, pull away, and park a distance away from my car. Then approach on foot and wait for my return.
But these cats showed immediate commitment and must have figured that if I could navigate the steaming black and red and orange flow before them, they could too. Big mistake. I had been damn lucky to get this far, and I wasn’t going any farther. At my back, another mile of both displayed and hidden molten rock, creeping slowly, headed for the ocean where it pushed and steamed and hissed into the water. Nossir, I sat in my Alamo, and those bastards could come to me.
I considered distances. As a better than good pistol shot—no brag, just fact—there were still limitations to my accuracy. Under the moonlit sky, these guys stood as dark silhouettes against a black background. Out to thirty yards, with a solid armrest, even with lousy sighting conditions, I would hit them. Aim for center mass, prepare for a follow-up shot. Forty to fifty yards and things became problematic. Past fifty? All bets were off. Such limitations played no part in their thinking. Their high-powered night-vision rifles could reach out and touch me at hundreds of yards, no problem.
But my chosen spot served its purpose. They were forced to approach, get close, once they’d ascertained my hiding spot among the other dozen or so half-destroyed structures strewn across the midnight-black field. Close enough to discern my position, my shape, hidden among the blackened debris.
They split up and entered the lava field. Each took cautious steps, stopped, scoped. A slow, sure, professional approach. One angled to my left and gained distance between us with each slow, considered step. The other made a zigzag line on my right. If his current course was maintained, I’d have a shot. Both moved with great wariness. Less for my potential danger—they knew my firing distance was restricted—and more for the bizarre danger presented by the earth’s surface. Belly pressed against concrete, I wormed under debris toward my right and assumed a firing position, arms straight in front and resting on the surface. Turned my head, slow, and checked my back side. Covered. The longer distance shooter would have no shot, even firing at my general position.
