by Vince Milam
I remained frozen, a pistol-laden sniper. Not the wisest of tactics, but beggars, choosers. The residual charred wood smell surrounded and combined with the peculiar burnt rock aroma. Minutes ticked off. It was only now, ear close to the ground, that I could fully discern the sticky-sounding low frequency rumble of creeping lava. The entire situation, top to bottom, was otherworldly.
The nearest enemy came into view. If he maintained his current course, he’d pass thirty or forty yards away. He took added precautions—placed a foot, pressed and released, and then applied his body weight. Moved forward for the next step. Every few steps he’d pause and scope. Then move again.
At forty yards he stopped parallel to my position. He devoted time for scoping, seeking, finding his enemy. He checked the debris, the timbers and lumber and collapsed bits of house construction. He stared right at me. Damn uncomfortable, knowing his finger rested on the trigger, the rifle aimed within feet of me. Or right at me as he attempted to discern the nature of a slight lump on the concrete among the debris.
Enough. It was a long shot and iffy and would alert his partner to my location. But the knowledge that crosshairs rested either close by or smack-dab on me mandated action. I squeezed the trigger.
The Glock boomed in the night, the muzzle flash bright and extensive. The pistol’s explosive sound was immediately followed by the wet thump of a bullet hitting home. He staggered, fired a wild shot, dropped to a knee, and drew a bead toward my muzzle flash signature. I didn’t give him the opportunity. The Glock boomed twice more, and he collapsed.
Bullets slapped the jumbled wood overhead. One whined off nearby concrete. His partner, having heard the melee, provided covering fire. For a dead man. I remained frozen. The firing stopped. Now my remaining enemy had a choice: reposition for a better firing angle, or come straight at me and take his chances. He chose to reposition.
Time became irrelevant. His movement was by cautious steps, a few feet at a time. Belly-crawling inches for me. My goal—find this guy, discern his position. Molasses movement, belly-flat. I eased through debris, cautious, without noise or the offer of any body part as a target. Ten or twenty or thirty minutes later, buried deep among the strewn-about charred wood, I found a decent view of my enemy’s general area.
Spotting him wasn’t an issue. He had limited choices. The frontal view he and his partner had taken hadn’t revealed me. His side position failed as well—the covering fire plowed into a remnant pile of junk. So now he headed farther into the active lava field, intent on sighting me from the back side. But what madness was this? Deeper into flowing lava, further into the bowels of danger and death and risk beyond what any normal person would accept? What was his motivation, his reward? Crazy. Absolutely crazy. How bloody much had Krupp offered? A million-dollar bounty wouldn’t drive this insanity. Yet there he was, stepping with slow, deadly intent, his silhouette backlit with strings and patches of red and yellow creeping lava. Madness.
A madness that ensured I’d be paying Krupp a visit in the very near future. A man who got his way as others yielded to his power and influence. Well, you’ve screwed with the wrong guy, Elliot. And payback is a bitch.
My enemy maintained a hundred-yard separation as he circled. I had a poor chance of whacking him from such a distance. And he had zero chance sighting me until he came close. Pistol-range close. He took his time, cautious of his footing, aware he had the entire night. So did I. And I wasn’t working my way across an active lava field.
As he moved, I waited for the pauses. Pauses to scope, seek me. Others for a footing check. During the latter I’d make minute adjustments, kept the pistol dead aimed on the distant target. Thirty minutes passed, an hour. Even through the concrete foundation, heat radiated. My belly and thighs and forearms were hot. Not as hot as the killer’s feet, but plenty warm.
The hellish environment got to him. He stopped, sighted, and fired a blistering bullet off to my right. The muzzle flash and zing of the high-velocity projectile skipping off concrete was followed with his rifle’s sharp crack. Aware there were limited places for me to hide, he opted for either hitting me with a chance shot or eliciting movement. Knowing his game wasn’t any consolation. Any movement on my part—any movement—and he’d catch it through his scope. Freeze and pray my lone option. A second shot, twelve inches off the ground, popped charred timber near my head. The next one might tell the tale of one beat-up ex-Delta operator. His third and final shot struck at my left, three feet away. It, too, cracked against damaged timber.
He stood stock-still and scoped. Sought a sign or movement or a glimpse of something out of place. He lowered his weapon and continued circling. He paused at a yards-long steam vent and made a poor decision. Head down, he checked the dark surface crack as gases wafted over him. Then he took a long half-leaping stride across. Big mistake. Maybe the heat had gotten to him and prompted a hasty decision. Or he’d decided to increase his pace, hunt with more rapidity. I’d never know.
His landing foot broke through the surface and straight into molten lava. He dropped the rifle as his screams roared across the hellscape, one after the other. He thrust himself backward and tumbled into the steam vent. The screaming never stopped. Until a single shot—a pistol shot—silenced the night. I never fired.
Reddish-yellow stretches of the terrain continued their sluggish movement, a slow, relentless crawl, indifferent to human doings. Moon and starlight, the unearthly low-frequency growl of melted rock on the move, and one ex-Delta operator who wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. I stood and made a decision.
The first killer lay crumpled fifty yards away. And while I’d chosen this hunting ground for the convenience of evidence disposal, he’d remain where he fell. Gobbled up in the earth’s sweet time. Yeah, I was unnerved. The second killer’s death had highlighted the lethal danger at every step. I wasn’t traipsing across unknown turf to roll the first hitter’s body into a lava flow. Not going to happen. Retracing my steps into this environment was iffy enough.
I took my time, ultra-cautious. Without two hitters on my butt, it took thirty minutes traversing what had taken ten. I gave a shiver of relief when I scaled the crumpled and caved end of the subdivision’s asphalt road. Jogged back toward the car, drove past their vehicle, and headed for Hilo. One helluva way to live.
Chapter 14
I pulled over near Hilo and called Jess. She answered after one ring.
“This had better be you,” she said, her voice filled with a mixture of relief and anger.
“It’s me. You still in Hilo?”
“You’re asking where I am? Are you nuts? Where are you? And how are you? And what happened?”
One of those make or break moments. A relationship landmine highlighted with neon. Under previous similar circumstances I’d have lied. Keep the other party ignorant of recent events. Protection for them. And, maybe, for me. But I was certain the parking lot vignette had driven a stake through any embryonic relationship between us, so there was little point dancing around with half-truths and outright lies. Go full frontal, be honest, let the brittle and cracked chips fall where they may.
“I’m in Hilo. Wanted to see if I could give you a ride back.”
Dead silence.
“And I’m okay. It’s over.”
Jess didn’t require an interpretation of “It’s over.”
“I should have called the cops,” she said.
“They wouldn’t have ended it. I did.”
A long pause. What wheels of hers turned, I couldn’t tell.
“After the little parking lot movie scene—and I only say that to lessen the reality that two men wanted us dead, or at least you dead—I became frantic. There was no telling how far Elliot would go, and I was worried about Joanna. I convinced an Uber driver to make the drive and take me back to Joanna’s place.”
“Good. Is she okay?”
“It’s not good. Yes, she’s fine. And I was frantic about you, too.”
Nice to hea
r.
“Once danger became apparent,” she continued, “we were partners. I let my partner down. I let him pull the danger away.”
“Yeah, well, they were after me. Not you. It worked out best this way.”
Another silence, and I didn’t have a clue where I stood.
“Why don’t you come by Joanna’s?”
“Sounds great.” It did. “Give me an hour and a half.”
We signed off and I headed for the high lonesome Saddle Road, south of Mauna Kea. As I climbed, stars filled the horizon. I rolled the windows down and let cool air rush as the miles ticked past.
Chalk up two more, Case. And consider the third. Krupp. Would threats, a two a.m. visit as he slept, force him to pull back? I doubted it. Was I absolutely positive those hitters were sent by Krupp? Yeah. While I’d had bounty hunters come after me over the years, they wouldn’t have the wherewithal to know I was currently in Hawaii. No way.
Options were limited, with full retribution and taking him out as the leading candidate. Cruising under the star-filled sky, I caught myself adopting a far too cavalier perspective about killing, about whacking a guy who hadn’t personally pointed a weapon in my direction. The two dead hitters had played the killing game with me. Death was inevitable. Mine or theirs. I supposed it was the same thing with Krupp.
Killers after me was old and tired news. News and a reality mitigated through an Ace of Spades escape. With no home address, no way to track me, and if I remained mobile in my watery home turf, past hitters would wait until I stuck my head up, with few exceptions. And those exceptions involved spooks with inside information on me. Krupp fell into the same inside information bucket. Which might include information on my family. Yeah, he’d have to go. Which left where and when as the only question.
A near-empty road at night beside a 14,000-foot volcano on a tropical island, driving alone, created a rich petri dish for reflection on the all too frequent events in the recent past that resembled what had just transpired. Two more souls gone. A bloody string of others prior. One more planned. As the drive progressed, I slid that door shut. It led to places better left alone. I had tonight with Jess and, for the moment, it would do.
I hit my hotel room and washed off the charred wood and debris I’d crawled around in. Scrubbed off the smells. A fresh appearance, nothing to see here, move along. Just ol’ Case dropping by. Jess wouldn’t buy it for a second. Joanna would. Before the shower, I replenished the Glock’s bullets. And dropped the now-ruined shoes into a back-of-the-resort dumpster. Habit and sound policy and yeah, once again I was aware what a strange place in the universe I occupied when the first order of the evening’s activities entailed reloading my weapon, tossing a pair of lava-ruined sneakers, and washing off another killing floor.
Jess met me at Joanna’s house.
“She’s sitting out back,” she said, hands on hips. “But you and I are having a chat first.”
“Okay.”
She hadn’t changed clothes but had added an accoutrement—the .45 was now holstered on the belt of her shorts. She stepped closer under the subdued lighting at the front sliding glass door and locked eyes.
“I need you to shoot straight with me,” she said.
“Sounds appropriate. On several levels.”
“That is not funny. The shindig we participated in at the waterfall parking lot. Do you consider it part of your normal life?”
“No.” I paused, blinked. “Well, not usually. And I’m moving away from such stuff. Take this gig, for example.”
“Fine, yes, let’s take this job. Either you kicked a hornet’s nest or you are the hornet’s nest. Which is it?”
“I don’t ask for trouble, Jess. Yeah, it shows up on occasion. There are extenuating factors from my past.”
The bounty. Which would remain unsaid.
“A Chinese spy strolling up at a Hawaiian restaurant would reflect trouble in my book. Two hired killers after you while we touristed could be construed as trouble, don’t you think? Or just another Case Lee Thursday?”
“It’s Friday.”
I smiled. She didn’t.
“You’re not going to charm your way out of this. At this point I’m not inclined toward any more dates or have drinks or hang with you. And I have serious doubts about you being around my client and best friend.”
“Okay. It doesn’t look good. I admit it. But Krupp kicked this off. At least the two hitters. And the Chinese spook was to be expected. Krupp is in bed with them.”
She looked away, her foot tapping the tile floor. Hands remained on hips, lips pursed. She turned back and said, “I know the likely outcome with those two. I’m not stupid. So my question is, does a stone-cold hitman lurk underneath your appealing exterior? Because at the moment, it sure looks that way to me.”
My phone pinged the arrival of a text message. Unusual. I received the occasional texts from Mom, but it was past midnight on the East Coast. Unless it was an emergency. My ex-Delta buddies reached out irregularly, but not at this hour. Otherwise I seldom received messages. A solid marker as to my limited social life.
“I have to check this, Jess. I’m sorry. But it might be an emergency.”
She backed away and began pacing across the entranceway, clearly thinking, clearly upset. The message was from Jules.
$1 to $10. Wasps swarm.
She was prone to cryptic messages, but this one rang clear and loud. The bounty had been jacked up from one million to ten. And bounty hunters swarmed. It had taken her spiderweb network several days to pluck this from the clandestine white noise, but Clubhouse intel was solid. Solid as hell. I required one bit of clarity. One piece of assurance.
4 X $10?
I asked if the bounty had also been raised on my three Delta buddies, plus me. The response was instant.
No.
Krupp had singled me out. Fine. What didn’t fit into the fine box by a country mile was he’d discovered the bounty, dug up the past. Connected the most hidden of dots. Which set off claxons regarding me. Irritating claxons. But nothing like the alarms that now screamed for my family.
Krupp had dug deep enough—with the CIA or MSS or who knows?—and discovered not only the bounty but the bounty’s funding source. A hidden identity and a question that had plagued Bo and Marcus and Catch and me for years. He’d connected with the bounty master. And raised the reward to ten million. Kept several layers of separation between himself and the individual who dangled the bounty. Clean hands. But rooting through data and connectivity and hidden intel about me meant he could connect Mom and CC. Where bounty hunters would nest. Wait for my appearance. Or kidnap them, lure me in.
Krupp was a dead man. Period. But the immediate took precedence. And I’d require help. Lots of help. It was always there, 24-7, prepared to move at a moment’s notice. I’d never pulled them together before. Never hit the alarm where the three took immediate action. My three ex-Delta blood brothers. It was now required. Right now. We might be a little longer in the tooth, but there was hell to pay. I’d cry havoc and let slip those dogs of war.
“I have to go. Right now. Sorry.”
Jess stopped pacing and locked eyes once again. Maybe for the last time.
“Then I guess there’s nothing more to say.”
Fire raged within me, and I agreed with her. There was nothing more to say, to salvage. Boiling anger covered any residual regret. As I got into the vehicle, she called out, “If you’re looking for Elliot, he’s not here. He flew back to the mainland this morning.”
Of course he did. But it didn’t matter. I’d deal with him once my family was safe and secure.
Circle the wagons, Krupp. Buy all the protection you can get, you son of a bitch. It won’t help. Once me and my blood brothers have taken care of bounty business, I’m coming for you.
Chapter 15
I shot past the neighborhood guardhouse and pulled over. Steadied myself and speed-dialed Mom. First things first. Mom and CC were in danger. If that bastard had glue
d me to the bounty, he’d provide—through backdoor channels—Mom and CC’s whereabouts. No doubt. So sound the alarms, hit the big red button. And shove away the image of my hands around Krupp’s throat.
I’d made this call several times before. When I suspected they might be in danger. This was different. This was real and for sure and no time for anything but rapid action. When I alerted Mom in the past, she’d pack up, grab CC and the dog, Tinker Juarez, and leave town for her still-spry mom’s place nestled among Spartanburg County’s forested hills, three hours away. Temporary sanctuary with Grandma Wilson who kept a loud, alert dog pack and knew her way around a firearm. Mom understood, accepted, and expressed concern about my safety.
Not this time. Grandma Wilson had passed a few months ago, the end of a long illness. Her place sat empty, the dogs adopted by neighbors and friends. Plus Krupp would have plucked Grandma Wilson’s location information and fed it to the bounty master. Again, no doubt. That son of a bitch. I kicked off a plan, a back-burner idea until Mom and CC were safe. It was early a.m. in Charleston, and Mom answered after three rings.
“Mom, I’m so sorry, but you have to go. Right now.”
I heard the bedding rustle as she sat up.
“How are you? Are you in danger?”
World’s greatest mom.
“I’m fine. But I mean now, Mom. I’m so, so sorry, and I can’t tell you how much this is a knife in my heart, but you’ve gotta go. Now. And not to the usual place.”
Mom’s phone wasn’t encrypted. I’d worked with her to exclude places and names when the alarm rang.
