A Pair of Second Chances (Ben Jensen Series Book 1)

by Brian Gore

  "Get everything ready to go here, but don't you leave until after midnight. Drive slow and careful. Don't you get your asses stopped! Wait until at least 1 a.m. to load them onto the boat. It'll be most quiet then. You watch careful! Don't you move anything, not a damn thing, if there's anybody around to see." He spoke the last as he was turning and walking off toward the office in the rear of the building.

  When the building had been a working warehouse, it served as a central supply center for a small chain of auto parts houses across the Midwest. Now it was the headquarters from which Tyrone shipped his illicit product into much of that same area, and ran a few of his other enterprises.

  Four men had already returned to sitting around the desk playing cards after the commotion, when Jamal shoved the door open. He shoved it open so suddenly, and with such force, it banged hard against the counter behind it. One of the card players was so startled that he jumped up from his chair, hitting the table and knocking over a bottle of beer, which splattered all over the other three...

  "What the fuck is wrong wit' you mahn? Clumsy dumb ass nyega!

  "Shit mahn, he spooked me! Yell at Jamal not me!"

  "Yah Mahn... Yell at me! Do it Mahn!" growled Jamal... glowering at them all, and rendering the room silent.

  "Get off your lazy backsides and get out there and clean up that mess. Burn that chair and mop that whole area... mop it out far Mahn, and use a lot of bleach. A lot of bleach. You understand? Do this right or I'll cut your balls off my self! You don't have to worry 'bout Tyrone. Leave not one damn ting mahn to show anything happened. Understand?"

  He continued without waiting for an answer. "Devon and Terrance are gonna go take out the garbage. You have that room clean when I get back. You got dat?" Jamal gave this last order punching his finger in the air... then nodding his head with lifted eyebrows, turned back to the open door and left the four, now silent men.

  "Damn Mahn... What the fuck is wrong wit heem?" asked the jumpy man who'd spilled the beer. "Shit... let's go get it done so he don' have no reason to get madder! I don' want dat Mahn mad at me!"

  Though the other three men nodded in agreement and set about collecting the buckets and bleach from the utility room to do the job, it didn't stop them from teasing him.

  "Let's see, he killed the only mahn that seen where the woman took Tyrone's son. And took his money... so now Tyrone got nothing... and you gon' wonder what is wrong wit him? You are one dumb ass nyega ain't you?" and they all laughed. Even the dumb ass allowed a sheepish grin.

  The four men walked out into the main warehouse, heading for the break room. They approached carrying their load of mops, buckets and bleach, just as the two men loading their ugly cargo into the Chevy van, parked just inside the overhead door, finished their task.

  At the same time, Jamal came back inside from making another phone call and approached the two men standing beside the van. "Terrance, you and Devon do like I said. Wait till midnight before you leave. I have to go see Tyrone. I'll see you when you get back." He started to turn away but turned back for a final; "Watch those boys, make sure they clean that up proper, Ok?"

  "Yah Jamal," Terrance replied; "We keep an eye on those boys for you. Go now mahn. You don't want to make Tyrone wait on you!"

  "OK, good. See you later mahn." With a final, slap of his hand on the side of the van Jamal turned and walked back to the side door, and the Black Yukon parked just outside it.

  The drive across town took him twenty minutes, and pushed him hard on to the half hour he'd told Tyrone it would take him. He parked along the curb and walked quickly toward the Condo doorway, took a deep breath, and entered the building headed for the bank of elevators that lined the back wall of the lobby area.

  Tyrone was on him when he entered the apartment. "Well you dumb ass Nyega. You shot dead the last man to see her and now what? How you gon' find her now? Find her to keep me from whackin', yo' ass? Huh? Tell me that fool!"

  "Why her phone don' tell us where she be at Mahn? She don' know nothin' 'bout dat. Sometime, she gon' turn it on... when she do that... bang! We know where she at! Then me and the bwoys go get her back... just like always Tyrone. We'll get her this time too."

  "Yeah? Well, This time gon' be the last. You get her back this time... I gon' kill da skettle."

  "You want us to jus' do it when we find her? Why bring her back here?" Jamal asked.

  "You bring her back here Jamal. You do as you told... I'm gon' be the one that busts a cap in her ass... Me! You got that?" Tyrone growled at him through gritted teeth.

  "Yeah... sure I do Tyrone... We'll bring her here." Jamal answered. "You gon' watch the phone? or do you want me to put somebody on that, watchin' the phone?" he asked.

  "That's why I tol' you to come here. You do that, sit one of 'em at a table... doin' nothing but watchin' that phone... and you tell him... he goes to sleep, that damn phone goes dead, ... so does he!" Tyrone growled out his order with a menacing tone in his voice, jabbing his finger at Jamal for emphasis.

  The two men stood looking at each other for a couple of seconds, until Tyrone with an angry; "Dead Bitch Walkin'!" thrust the cell phone into Jamals' hand. With the one word order; "Go!" and a flip of his hand, he turned and headed back to his whore waiting in the bedroom.

  The last thing Jamal heard, as Tyrone slammed the bedroom door closed behind him, was his curse; "That bitch gonna pay, she gonna pay high!"

  Jamal was back to the warehouse and had the "Phone guard" placed and instructed by 8:15 p.m. that night.

  While Terrance and Devon were still waiting to leave on their grisly errand, there was nothing for Jamal to do but wait himself. So he ran the others out of the office, telling them to use the break room. He sat by himself, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee and listening to reggae music on the radio.

  He knew that at this point, not knowing how she'd left town, or even if she had, that all they could do was wait. The first time she'd only made it to the apartment of a girl she knew right there in Chicago. The second time the bitch had gotten her sorry ass all the way to Florida!

  She'd given them a good run that time, and had managed to escape them by just minutes a time or two. But, in the end, they'd always found her and brought her back. All they could do now was to wait and hope she'd turn the damn phone on, and reveal her location. Knowing Tyrone, and his psychotic rages, he hoped they'd not have to wait too long.

  Chapter 4

  The boy walked to the end of the block and turned west. He walked four blocks and stopped in front of the peeling paint on the door of a dilapidated bar.

  He pushed the door open and stuck his head inside. Half a dozen men sat around a table, playing cards in the dark, musty, room that smelled of beer and cigar smoke. The men looked up when the door opened but no one spoke until the boy motioned to one man, in his middle forties, waving for him to come outside.

  "What do you want Ivo?" he questioned.

  "Uncle Raif, something has happened... I have to tell you!" the boy spoke, making no effort to disguise the urgency in his voice.

  "Then come in and tell me boy! You might be afraid of your Grandmother, but I don't jump for her!" All the men at the table laughed.

  Hesitantly Ivo Bukvic stepped into the dark barroom and let the door swing closed behind him. He stepped to the table and stood quietly, looking around the table at the faces of all the men, before his gaze stopped on that of his Uncle, Raif Bukvic.

  "Well boy? What are you waiting for? Speak!" his Uncle chided him.

  Again, the boy slowly, almost shyly, looked around the table; "I was in the alley, across the street from grandmothers... "

  "And what were you doing there boy? Hiding from your Grandmother again so you could smoke?" another round of laughter from the men at the table filled the barroom.

  Ivo looked at his Uncle without an answer before he continued his story; "Sadik Spaho, stopped his cab in front of the alley. A few seconds later, a van, a white van that had been parked down the street
, pulled up beside him and two men jumped out. Two very big, black, men. They hit him and dragged him into the van and drove away."

  The laughter and banter around the table stopped, as if a switch had been flipped.

  "Are you sure Ivo? It was Sadik?" asked his Uncle.

  "Of course Uncle. I wasn't standing more than 50 feet away. Just behind that dumpster in the alley. It was him Uncle. It was Sadik. What does it mean?" the boy replied.

  Raif looked around himself, at the faces surrounding the table, and then at the boy. "I don't know Ivo. I don't know. But, we will find out... Have you seen those men before? Did you see the license of the van. Anything?"

  "No Uncle. It was too fast. I don't think I've seen the men either. Just very big black men. A couple, the driver and one of those who jumped out, had their hair, you know... in those long strings... dreadlocks. They were waiting down the street for fifteen minutes before Sadik pulled up, but I had no reason to pay attention to them. But, as soon as he slowed in front of the building, their van started and pulled along side. The cab is still there."

  "Good boy Ivo" his uncle said, patting the boy on the shoulder. "Go now, or we'll both have trouble with your Grandmother." He waved toward the door with his hand.

  As Ivo went out and the door closed behind him Raif turned to the men at the table. "Trouble follows us like a plague... It hunts us again now. I feel it now... We ran from Bosnia... I will not run again."

  "Not me either. Do we call the police?" one of the card players asked.

  "Did calling the police help us in Srebrenica? When the United Nations declared it a 'Safe Zone'... did it do us any good? or Prijedor or Zvornik? We were on our own then too, but foolishly left the safety of our families to the authorities and our leaders. I will never again surrender to the promises of politicians and cowards!" Raif answered with a cold rage burning in his eyes. "I will defend my family myself. In the ways I learned from my enemies! And those who make themselves my enemy, will learn the tradition of the Blood Feud, that I learned from my Grandfather."

  Murmurs of agreement floated around the table.

  "OK, we agree" another of the men said; "So... what do we do?"

  "We have to decide who is our leader now... that is first." responded Zlatko Durakovic, another of the card players.

  "That's easy" spoke another; "Sgt. Bukvic! Who led us in the Bosniak Militia and who brought us all here! Who else?"

  Every man at the table, except Raif Bukvic nodded in agreement. He hadn't wanted the responsibility back in Bosnia. He didn't want it now. But, many of the things we must accept in life are unwanted he thought.

  They had come to America seeking a peaceful life for their families, or what was left of them. A few of them still had wives and children. Others, like Sadik lived with the horror of how their families had been taken, and how they had suffered. They had come here hoping to find a fresh start away from the brutality and obscenity of the old country.

  It seemed that their wishes would not be granted. Raif rubbed his face with his hands... as if to wipe away the horrors he felt again gathering around him. But, when he looked up, the other five men still sat, awaiting their instructions.

  Five men and himself, not counting Sadik. The remains of their unit in the home defense Bosniak Militia. Experienced, combat soldiers, and good family men all.

  "The van, according to Ivo, had been sitting, as if knowing the cab would come. Zlatko, you and Juka go there. Ivo said the cab is still in the street. Go to it... Drive it to the garage. Talk to the dispatcher. Find out who called for it... Something stinks Zlatko... find out Who... I know that slimy little bastard... make him talk and waste no time... Understand?"

  Zlatko and Juka rose and left the room grim faced, with out a word. They only nodded their understanding of their orders.

  "Mirza, go to the storage space. Load our weapons and gear in the trunk of my car, then return here" Raif commanded, thumping the table top with his index finger. As he handed Mirza his keys he continued; "and Mirza... no one sees you. No One... Understand?"

  "Of course Raif... No one." he replied, took the keys and went out the back door.

  Raif, Milan Granic, and Jadranko Prazina sat quietly at their table in the otherwise empty barroom, sipping their beer... "and so it begins again." Jadranko said quietly... speaking to no one in particular.

  They sat quietly, waiting, each immersed in his own thoughts. They had left Bosnia-Herzegovina to escape the sickness that seemed to infect that land yet they seemed unable to escape. Troubles followed them everywhere.

  Though they had no desire for war, they'd sworn an oath to each other that they never again would allow themselves to be defenseless in the face of an enemy. When they had settled in Chicago, though they were surrounded by the seeming peace and stability of America, they remembered living in the apparent peace of Sarajevo.

  Hell, the Olympics had come there! Yet still, the place had descended into barbarism. They remembered the massacres... They remembered the lost, and they had sworn to each other; "Never Again".

  So, when they arrived in Chicago, one of their first tasks was to assemble a small cache of weapons, ammunition and gear, as their insurance policy against the expected unexpected.

  Mirza would bring those weapons. Zlatko and Juka would do the scouting to see where they needed to go.

  When all was ready... They would go find Sadik.

  Chapter 5

  The morning sun, coming through a dirty window found the cowboy still slumped in the chair he'd passed out in the night before. His supper was burnt to a cinder on the now cold stove. A.H. nuzzled Ben's chin trying to wake him. He needed to get outside, and waiting any longer really wasn't an option.

  Ben stirred, and slowly awoke to the slobbery licking of the big rangy mutt. "Ga'dam A.H.! quit slobberin' all over me ya bastard! You know I don't like it!" he growled at the dog... rubbing his calloused hand over his head, belying the curses. The dog just wagged his tail and kept slobbering.

  Ben finally struggled to his feet. "Ok, Ok, I'll let ya out... you must have to pee awful bad ya big, worthless, flea farm!" he growled as he opened the creaky cabin door. The dog raced outside and watered the weeds in the ranch yard.

  He left the door open to the morning air as A.H. got his relief, and went about his usual routine fixing breakfast.

  When he was done eating, he sat at the table just drinking his coffee and looking at the mountains through the open door. "Seventy-five thousand dollars, and six weeks to find it." was the thought that kept echoing in his mind. If he could somehow manage to catch that much it'd buy him another year, though he hadn't any idea what he'd actually live on.

  He had a couple over two dozen top broodmares up on the mountain... and just short of two dozen foals by their side. He thought he could get maybe three hundred dollars a piece for those colts running 'em through a sale and taking what he could get.

  Of the good year he'd started out on, with 100% foal and calf crops, the damn cougars and bears had him down to what he believed was twenty two foals and near as he could tell, something around 90 calves out of the 100 cows he had remaining in his small herd. He might get some compensation from the state for the depredation damage a rancher wasn't allowed to defend himself against... but that was a long, and iffy ordeal.

  No... he'd have to collect his foal and calf crop, get the best price he could, then cull either his mare or cow herds, or both, again, to try and make up the difference.

  He hated to cut his herd again. It'd sure make producing the mortgage payment next year a hard go... but what choice did he have? All he could do, was all he could do.

  A.H. came back in after his morning patrol of the ranch grounds to take up his spot beside the woodstove.

  Ben finished his coffee and with a "Well dog... only thing left is to catch 'em, and haul 'em!" he walked out of the cabin and headed toward the barn.

  He talked to his horses as he saddled up. "Well Toby, we gotta go catch those pack horses. We
gotta ride up and set a camp up on the mountain. I'm needing to round up those mares. Haven't worked 'em in some lil' while. They're likely to be wild as deer. You up to it boss?"

  Not surprisingly, the horse just finished his grain in the nosebag hanging on his head, and didn't answer.

  With the horse saddled Ben swung up and called to A.H. as he rode out of the yard; "You know the drill flea bag... keep a close eye on this mansion, I'll be back this afternoon... I hope!"

  While he had moved his mares to graze higher up on the mountain with the spring thaw, his three pack horses were kept in a pasture lower down. He really didn't have any thought of having difficulty catching them, all he had to do was find 'em first, in that rough country.

  He liked putting the mares up high in that rocky country early. Get 'em up high while the colts were still young. It was his belief that those babies, growing up climbing around those high peaks, produced sounder, thinking, more capable working horses. It had its' risks, what with bears, and cats, and now wolves, but he was willing to accept those as a part of producing the best horse. His philosophy seemed to agree with a lot of people; he never seemed to have any real difficulty selling his horses.

  Ben rode out some ten miles, crossing a section of National Forest land that lay between his pasture ground and the home ranch. This particular pasture was two sections that ran across the base of the Absaroka mountains and covered the mouths of two narrow valleys that ran back up into the hills.

  If he got lucky, he'd pick the right valley first and find those horses quick. He'd left a few cows in this lower pasture back in the spring. They were mostly the hideout, bunch quitters he'd been too drunk to catch when he pushed the main herd, along with the mare band, up to summer graze.

  For once, luck was on his side. He'd just started into the first valley when he found his pack horses, standing in the shade of some pines. Stepping down, he ground tied Toby and took the nosebags with their baits of grain off his saddle horn.