The Amazon Job

by Vince Milam

  He would. Neighborhood or not, he’d hustle along the street and plug this guy. Without a doubt. Even if the Russian pulled an ankle-holster firearm and prepared a defensive position. Didn’t matter. Marcus Johnson would keep coming. Do what he said.

  “What is your name?” the hitter asked.

  “The pale rider,” Marcus said. “Now get your ass out the door.”

  The Russian did as he was told. Marcus stood at the open entrance and watched, the pistol alongside his leg. He lit a cigar and spoke while his eyes remained glued on the Russian’s retreating figure.

  “Can I make a suggestion, son?”

  “Please don’t.”

  As expected, he ignored me.

  “I would suggest you seek other forms of employment. One where you can get up in the morning and not wade through dead bodies and Russian spooks.”

  No argument from me.

  Chapter 34

  “They left a trail,” I said. “Somewhere in this house, they left a trail. Help me find it.”

  Marcus closed and locked the front door.

  “Why not ask the Iranian if he knows anything?”

  “Could use help searching for clues. And I could use an attitude adjustment, Marcus.”

  “If I find a bottle, sniff it, and keel over dead, does that count as a clue?”

  “Attitude, please.”

  I started with Archer’s office. Hit pay dirt right away. More than pay dirt. Scattered across the messy surface lay receipts and packing slips. Lab equipment. A great deal of lab equipment—expensive, sophisticated stuff. A recent delivery.

  Tracks, evidence—and the fire within stoked. I knew something wasn’t right about this incursion. Something empty. But the lab receipts, for the first time, confirmed absolute intent. Amsler was cooking. Somewhere, she’d attempted synthesis of her discovery. She’d teamed with the Iranians—the dead guy in the other room was proof aplenty—and was hell-bent on delivering. Delivering mass death. Well, screw that noise.

  The receipts were also death warrants, plain and simple. I no longer considered the capture-and-deliver-Amsler option. I would terminate her, and her sidekick, with extreme prejudice.

  Marcus wandered into the office. I handed him a few receipts. Didn’t take long for him to digest it. The receipts, and the Russian hitter, removed his last vestige of buried skepticism. Skepticism I understood and expected. He hadn’t viewed the dead zone. He hadn’t watched a passing dragonfly crash and burn from airborne toxicity. Hadn’t seen a stretch of Amazon jungle sick with mummified bird and monkey corpses. Or the real-time lesson of two MOIS thugs exposed to the toxin.

  “To be crystal clear, Marcus, I no longer require a chat with Ana Amsler.”

  “And to be crystal clear on my part, attitude adjusted. Let’s find her. Terminate this.”

  We nodded simultaneously. It was game on, and Marcus Johnson wasn’t standing on any sidelines. Neither was Case Lee.

  “Let’s focus.” He continued puffing the cigar. “They did leave one lead. Too bad the dumbass Russkie shot him.”

  “The Iranian was my welcoming committee. He may not have known Amsler and Archer’s whereabouts.”

  “It’s a moot point now. Let’s gather the basics. They drove somewhere. You don’t have a bunch of lab equipment delivered then get on an airplane.”

  “Gotta assume he’s already set it up. These were delivered a week ago,” I said and waved a handful of receipts.

  Amsler had communicated with Archer while in Brazil. Dark web, most likely. No tracks, no traces. Communiqués buried within a murky world that frustrated sniffers and electronic bloodhounds. We both stood still, absorbed the implications.

  “I’ll take the living room and kitchen,” Marcus said.

  “Roger that. I’ve got the office and bedrooms. We’ve got to hustle. The Russian will be back.”

  How had the Russians tracked to Archer’s house? Kim Rochat? Mossad? Somewhere in the deep background, information trickled. White noise now, shoved aside. Time to circle, sniff, and ferret out the trail.

  “Don’t worry about the Russian,” Marcus said.

  “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

  “Then I hope it’s him you’re worried about. As for me, I may shoot his ass on general principles.”

  We both went to work. I pulled drawers, rifled through papers and supplies. Searched cabinets and closets. Sought indicators, hints, potential destinations. Amsler and Archer were cooking. A sophisticated lab established, synthesis underway. I should have known they wouldn’t attempt such an endeavor within a neighborhood. Prying eyes, noses, ears. No, they’d packed up and headed for a spot where they could pull it off. MOIS had helped, and we could count on Kirmani’s involvement as well. The son of a bitch was here in the States, no doubt.

  No evidence, no clues. A carpet outline in Archer’s closet where a suitcase once sat. The dresser drawers with empty areas. Toothbrush and shaving kit gone. We found no weapons, although we did find a half-filled box of .357 pistol ammunition tucked away on a closet’s upper shelf. And no sign of Amsler other than the cigarette butts outside the garage door. She hadn’t stayed long.

  “What are we missing?” Marcus asked as he pulled the dead man’s wallet and checked his pockets. “There’s a record here somewhere of intent. Direction.”

  “The kitchen. People hide stuff in food containers and cans.”

  We ripped it apart. Panic’s insidious edge entered. We had no game plan, no active fallback if we failed to find evidence of their lab’s location. Marcus was experiencing the anxiety as well, and he hypothesized as we tore open cereal boxes and frozen items.

  “They may have rented a place near a rural airport,” he said. “Where crop dusters are available.”

  “Or close to San Diego’s water supply. Or LA’s. We can check those out.”

  Needle. Haystack. But I felt the same desperation. We both understood the immediate alternative. Contact the Feds. Contact Marilyn Townsend, the Company’s head spook. Unleash the hounds. And they’d start with this house and the dead MOIS agent and our involvement. It would get worse from there. Deep research into Case Lee’s domestic activities. Lots of expired hitters and bounty hunters sprinkled across that landscape. With no assurances, none, they would handle this current situation with the appropriate level of gravity. While Amsler and Archer cooked, planned, arranged. With the help of SoCal MOIS agents. Together, they crafted horror beyond a 9/11 scale. Oh, man.

  “Hitting the garage,” I said.

  Marcus continued his desperate kitchen disassembly and responded. “Roger that. I’ll search the attic crawl space next.”

  I flicked on the garage lights with no concern for neighbors noticing activity. I was beyond such considerations. Dusk settled. Muted light filtered through the lone garage window. Two overhead bulbs helped. Workbench—nothing. Shelves of fertilizer, insecticide, garden tools. Old rope, a rusty chain, several opened paint cans. Old wallpaper rolls, a small roll of linoleum flooring tied with chord. I was creating far too much noise, flinging items when they stood in the way of something behind them. I didn’t care. Time ticked; people would die. A great number of people.

  Several old cardboard boxes had been shoved on the highest shelves. They came tumbling down. One held Christmas ornaments. Another filled with seldom-used kitchen gadgets—food processor, pasta maker, George Foreman grill. One box contained old documents. I moved it over to the workbench and flicked on the available gooseneck lamp. Legal documents from Archer’s parents. He’d been the executor of their estates. Archer’s tax records—nothing jumped out after a cursory reading. An old article from a scientific journal. Search, fling, search. An old multifolded blueprint.

  Bingo, maybe. A construction blueprint. A house or a cabin. My heart pounded; the years-old paper was stiff and resistant to unfolding. The construction company was listed on the blueprint’s left side. The lower right of the two-feet-by-three-feet document stated the content:

  Cou
ntry Cabin. Designed and Built for Theodite, Inc. A Nevada Corporation.

  Below the verbiage, a set of coordinates. This cabin didn’t have an address; it was so far in the boonies they’d used geographic coordinates.

  “Marcus!”

  He strode through the kitchen as foodstuff and packaging crunched underfoot.

  “Finished the crawl space. Not a damn thing.” He stepped into the garage. “What do you have?”

  “Call these coordinates to me in a minute.”

  I pointed toward the spot on the blueprint. He grasped the discovery as his face formed a tight half-smile. I stepped outside the back garage door and picked up a satellite phone signal. Left the door open. The garage lights created a rectangle of light across the grass.

  “Who is Theodite?” Marcus asked. “A Nevada Corporation?”

  “Archer.”

  “How so?”

  The satellite signal locked in. I said a quick prayer. Make these coordinates nearby. Remote but nearby.

  “Nevada has an unreal privacy level for corporations,” I said, waiting for the overhead big bird’s signal to settle down. “You don’t have to file owner names with the state. No public record, no secret record. Not there at all. Folks hire an attorney to serve as the person of record. Anonymity, big time.”

  “You would know that.”

  “Feed me coordinates, oh sour one,” I said as my hopes rose and my excitement built. The blueprint was old, but the trail was now hot, the scent fresh. This had to be it.

  Marcus spoke the coordinates. I used Google Earth. A challenge on a handheld device, but I zoomed in. A clearing. And a structure smack-dab in the middle. Slow zooms out and I discerned a long winding forest road, connecting with another. Zoomed farther out. San Bernardino National Forest. Archer owned a tucked-away private plot in the middle of a national forest. I oriented myself with nearby towns and stepped back inside.

  “Temecula.”

  “A town?”

  “An hour north. We can get a room and reconnoiter. His cabin is in the national forest maybe an hour or so away from there.”

  He exited the garage, folded the blueprint, and shoved it into his back waistband.

  “What does your gut say?”

  “They’re there. This is it.”

  His half-smile increased.

  “Then let’s roll.”

  We did.

  Chapter 35

  Several hours later, laptop open, drinks ordered. A Temecula hotel’s quiet lounge. A couple in another corner chatted, two business people sat solo at the bar, checking their phones. Low music—an old Three Dog Night tune—provided conversational cover.

  Marcus insisted we stop and gather supplies during the drive from San Diego. We collected a grab bag of situational tools: rope, chain, shovels, duct tape, plastic sheeting, zip ties, crowbar, bolt cutters. Not a stop I would have made, but Marcus called the shots when it came to preparedness—team lead tendencies pulled from his background. No argument from me.

  The laptop’s larger screen allowed for an excellent view of the cabin and surrounding area. It was more house than cabin. The rustic look was built-in with purpose. Single level, log construction. Attached two-car garage. Large propane tank behind the structure, an elevated gas tank nearby for vehicles. The structure was centered within a hundred-yard vaguely circular clearing. A deliberate firebreak. The surrounding forest was interspersed with rock outcrops and large boulders. Big mountains eastward. The turf to the west similar to the Temecula area—large hills, stony outcrops, arid.

  “What’s with the private property in a national forest?” I asked. Marcus lived in an area surrounded by national forests. He’d know.

  “You see it often. Old established homesteads remain in private hands. The Forest Service provides a permanent easement for a private access road. This guy tore down an old cabin to build his Shangri-La. Check the weather.”

  His team lead tendencies at work again. Gather the variables, plan, execute.

  “Early morning light rain, drizzle, mist.”

  “Good. Wet undergrowth, muffled noise. Low light, no sun glints off equipment. Let’s talk targets.”

  I sipped my vodka-rocks, half hiding a smile. He knew the targets. And their fate. Operational protocol, as per Marcus Johnson.

  “Amsler. Archer. MOIS agents, maybe.”

  “Other players perceived as friendly?” he asked.

  “You mean Russians? Company assets?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marcus, when I say we’re ahead of the gang, this time take it to the bank. We both know some spook outfits are a helluva lot better than others at tracking. But this cabin intel, the blueprint, is ours alone. Gotta be.”

  “Nothing is got to be with spooks.”

  “Fair enough. But let’s bet on targets confined to Amsler, Archer, and MOIS agents. And as for MOIS, they’re thugs. Killers. I wouldn’t expect great battle experience.”

  “Hmm.” Marcus took nothing for granted.

  The barkeep wandered over. Marcus ordered another beer; I remained good with the dregs of mine.

  “What if they haven’t synthesized any?” Marcus asked. “What if they’re still working on it? Makes our job a lot easier.”

  “Unknown. But those receipts for lab equipment are a week old. He prepped for her arrival. She hit the ground running.”

  “Which still doesn’t tell us anything about their cooking progress.”

  “Yeah, but I know one thing. A collection of purple plants wiped out life across an area the size of a football field. And if they can synthesize it, they can concentrate it. Don’t know the best way to describe it. But a gallon or two of concentrate offers the possibility of terror on a scale you and I can’t imagine. This stuff is potent beyond belief.”

  “I’m uncomfortable sitting here. Come on. Outside.”

  We wandered onto a small empty patio attached to the bar. Told the barkeep we were fine on drinks. Traffic minimal, the night cool, and somewhere east of us in the San Bernardino Mountains two wingnuts worked away. Marcus fired a cigar, cogitated, and stared into the sky.

  We developed an operational plan with the full understanding it constituted a framework only. Prone to go to hell in a handbasket—combat always altered plans—but this was an assault on a lone building’s occupants. The framework’s key attribute: get as many of them as possible out of the cabin.

  We counted on MOIS’s presence, and having them holed up in their Alamo made for a high-risk situation. We didn’t possess the appropriate firepower for an assault on a house full of armed enemies. No grenades, no shoulder-mounted rockets. Our best option avoided having them hunkered down inside. Get their sorry asses out in the open. Terminate them. Doubtful if Amsler and Archer would join the fight. We’d handle them after removing the high-velocity bullet threats.

  A short and mild disagreement ensued regarding our positioning at the cabin, expected and settled.

  “You circle north,” Marcus had said. “Take the back and north side.”

  “Nope. You take it. I’ve got the cabin’s front and south.”

  Odds were high much of the action we encountered would show at the front, including the garage entrance.

  “My mess. My cleanup,” I added and patted Marcus on the arm. He’d attempted to remove the battle’s hot spot from my tactical responsibility. No further positioning discussion ensued. He understood and respected my perspective.

  “Nothing indicates power lines to the cabin. They’ll have a generator or two somewhere. We could start with them,” Marcus said.

  “Won’t draw much of a crowd. Whoever is on watch—if anyone is standing watch—will wander over and check it. I doubt if much of a crowd will join the generator inspection.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “There’s always the old standby.”

  Fire. A large fire brought an atavistic reaction. People rushed about, clamored to escape or move closer for a view. Fire got people’s attention, pronto.

&nb
sp; “I like it.”

  “The elevated gas tank,” he said. “The hose is gravity fed, no noise. Douse the ground around the tank. Light it.”

  As with innumerable remote ranches and cabins, Archer owned an elevated fuel tank for his vehicles. It appeared as a hundred fifty to two hundred gallon tank mounted on a steel stand, maybe six feet in the air.

  “It might run downhill and soak the back of the cabin as well.”

  “Good,” Marcus said. “Smoke them out.”

  I related the vignette on the river when Kim and I had stripped and burned our clothes. Yeah, fire appeared to take care of business with tiny doses of the toxin. But a full-blown conflagration with distilled toxin could send deadly stuff into the atmosphere. The propane tank popping off ensured uncontrolled fire. How far such a smoke cloud would drift, unknown. The potential to wipe out a small city like Temecula loomed. A distinct possibility.

  “If the cabin starts burning with whatever amount of toxin is inside, run like hell, Marcus. I’ll be with you stride for stride.”

  “This stuff is seriously that bad?”

  “No question. And I can’t have a potential death cloud killing everything downwind on my head.”

  We both internalized the thin ice we would tread the next morning. Delta-style assaults, sure. Fast, violent, deadly. No worries. But handling and disposing of a substance this dangerous was well outside our shared experience.

  “As for post-engagement,” I added. “If we’ve captured the toxin, sure. We burn the cabin to the ground, bodies included. We don’t need tracks of our involvement when the law arrives, if it does.”

  Bodies included. Such cut-and-dried callousness. Time’s passage, life lived, now altered my perspective toward discussions of a mission’s aftermath. It was part of our past shared experiences, but I now viewed these activities through a different lens.

  “I still like the old standby to draw them out. Ideas?” he asked.

  “Yeah. The garage is the lab. Gotta be. So vehicles will park in front. If it’s a solo vehicle, MOIS isn’t around. We ease inside and take care of business.”