by Brian Gore
"OK... let's go" and he motioned to Terrance to drive.
As Terrance drove, Jamal took out his pistol and checked it and its magazine. Devon, Musa and even Terrance, checking as he drove, did the same.
"This ends now. Everyone understand what we do here?" Jamal wanted to know.
The other three men looked at him and nodding answered in near unison; "Ya mahn!"
"Good, let's get this shit done. I don' like Montana." Jamal opined.
They were about a mile off the main highway when they came to a monument sign in a landscaped island identifying the entry into Pinewood estates.
The name was a little more generous with the tone of the area than the reality. It was, rather than a residential subdivision, an area of summer, and weekend cabins, that had seen more prosperous times.
Most of the cabins in the subdivision didn't see more use than three or four weekends a year, with none of them being inhabited full time.
This being the middle of the week, in September, with kids in school, and hunting season not yet started, the area was deserted. Most of the cabins were shuttered tight and closed up.
Jamal and his crew drove slowly up one narrow twisting road and down another until Devon called from his position on the drivers side of the back seat; "Terrance, stop!"
"There! See it? Off there through the trees, a red car beside that cabin."
Four sets of eyes peered through the timber in the early evening dusk. The little red Saturn could be seen partially concealed beside a small cabin that sat at the end of a driveway that turned in a hundred feet or so farther up the road they were now on.
"Go!" Jamal shouted; "Go now!" he raised his weapon as he put his hand on the door handle.
The Yukon careened off the road and turned up the driveway sliding to a stop as all four doors opened and disgorged the four Jamaicans.
They spread out in a four man line across the drive, four or five yards apart, as they approached the cabin, which was, curiously, shuttered.
Devon walked on the left, Jamal next in line, with Terrance on his right and Musa on the right flank. With no windows to watch four sets of eyes scanned all over the small cabin and the surrounding area. Nothing stirred. Rare for Montana, there wasn't even a breeze.
They stopped twenty feet short of the cabin porch while Jamal tried to figure out what to do. The cabin seemed uninhabited, windows and front door tightly shuttered. But, that was damn sure the car. Where were they?
"I see ya'll didn't take my suggestion to leave Montana!" a voice called out; "and, Ya'll walk like you're a lil' sore too! You boys fall down or somethin'?"
Jamal snapped his weapon up into a weaver like stance, in spite of his stiffness and aimed toward the tree line that had been cleared back a hundred feet from the west side of the cabin. The man who called out to them was hidden in the shadow of those trees, like in a western movie, the sun at his back. Following Jamal's lead, his crew followed suit.
"No Surprise this time cowboy!" He hollered back; "Where's the Bitch? Give her up now, and I might let your white ass live!"
"Damn, boy... You've not learned any manners since we had our difficulty the other day have you?"
Jamal moved a couple of steps toward the voice in the trees, eyes futilely searching the dark timber for his target. He strained, trying to see into the gloom, past the glare of the early evening sun.
"Far enough big fella" Ben cautioned; "Me bein' a polite cowboy, you get one... last... warning... Leave now... or ... Never!"
"It's You that get one warning you honky ass hole!... Where's the fucking bitch?!"
"Such language, and from such a large man... must mean you got a lilllll' bitty pecker!" Ben taunted.
In frustration, Jamal moved his weapon a few degrees toward where he thought the voice was coming from and fired... three rounds, spaced across the tree line, as fast as he could pull the trigger.
The return fire, from a lever action 30-30, followed hard on the echo of Jamal's pistol. That one, single, round, struck Jamal on the bridge of his nose, snapped his head back, and slammed him hard to the ground. He was dead before he hit.
In an immediate, instant, reaction, Devon and Terrance both fired blindly at the trees. The muzzle flash from Ben's rifle was shrouded by the glare of the sun. It offered no identifiable target.
Two more shots cracked out of the thick timber. Both men went down and didn't move. Musa turned to run back to shelter behind the Yukon. His arm extended behind him, he fired blindly at the trees as he ran.
He almost made it.
Just as he reached the right front fender of the Chevy, a fourth shot cracked, and deeply creased his left buttock. It knocked him off balance so that he tripped and rolled as he ducked behind the car. In full panic, he crawled across the ground to the open passenger door and hauled himself inside.
Musa reached for the keys as he lay across the floor of the Yukon, twisted them, starting the engine, reached up and threw the gear shift into reverse and then slammed his hand down on the accelerator.
The tires spun and threw up gravel from the driveway as two more shots punched holes in the windshield. The car hurtled blindly down the drive, across the road and slammed to a stop in the bar ditch.
With the Yukon rolling down the driveway, Ben ran out of the trees jerking more rounds out of the leather ammo carrier laced onto the rifles butt stock. He hastily shoved rounds into the weapons magazine.
When the car bounced, as it slammed into the ditch, Musa, wide eyed and panicked, scrambled up onto the seat, jerked the gearshift into drive and tore off up the road, fishtailing wildly.
As the Black Chevy roared off down the road, Ben fired two last shots, shattering the rear window of the departing SUV before it crested a low rise and vanished.
He stood for a few moments and then, shaking his head, cursed himself; "Damn, I am getting old. Never would have left one loose in the old days..."
He scanned the surrounding area quickly, as he walked toward the Saturn. "Still no one around... good." he thought. He set the rifle butt down on the floor of the passenger side and flipped the muzzle over against the passenger door, before turning to run back to the positions he'd fired from. Carefully he scanned the ground and policed up the brass of the seven rounds he'd ejected. Tossing the empty casings in his hand and thinking of the eighth still in the rifle, he smiled to himself; "Almost forgot... Damn, I'm getting sloppy." He left nothing, other than his tracks for the police to wonder about.
He stood thinking for a few seconds, hand resting on the open driver's door. A thought occurred to him and he went to the bodies in the drive, leaned down and quickly turned their pockets inside out. "Amanda might be flush, but this ol' buster is flat busted broke. I can use this", as he pulled a descent roll of cash off each of the dead men. With an approving nod at his fist full of newly gained riches, he returned to the car once more.
Looking emotionless at the three, no longer tough, Jamaican thugs laying in the driveway, he thought. "I tried to tell you boys to pursue a different line of business... you just weren't no good at this one. You just wouldn't listen." As he sat down in the drivers seat he spoke out loud; "Some folks just aren't very accepting of criticism I guess."
He fired up the little car's motor, slid the transmission into reverse and slowly backed out and down the drive. As he hit the road, stopped, moved the stick into drive and started to pull away... Ben smiled to himself and thought; "I wonder whose cabin this is?"
Making an "I don't have any idea" expression with a lift of his eyebrows, and without another soul to witness, he slowly drove away, in the direction opposite of that which the Yukon had taken.
Chapter 20
From Ennis to Choteau was 333 miles and then another 25 mile of bad road up into the headwaters of Deep Creek, where the cabins lay.
He wished he'd thought to get Amanda a throw away Phone, so he could make sure she found the place OK, and just to have a line of commo open to her.
She'd foun
d her way to Montana. He had little doubt she could follow the directions he'd given her. But still, it would have been nice to have been able to make contact with her, just to make sure.
When he rolled through Butte, running up I-90, Ben made a fast stop in the Wal Mart, and rectified that communications error. He picked up the cheapest junk phone they had along with twenty five dollars worth of airtime. With the two dollar a day plan it had, he hoped this situation would be corrected before the card ran out. Then he climbed back in the Saturn, put his foot on the floor, turned north on I-15 and went back to racing toward the hunting camp and Amanda.
While he drove he made a couple of calls, finally tracking down Anne Blythe, the dead outfitters wife, at her home in Florida. He didn't expect any problem, but it would be the polite thing to do, rather then just squat on the place. They traded the usual pleasantries about the weather and how much she missed Montana before he asked her for her official permission to use one of the cabins for a bit.
She assured him that would be fine. "Might as well have somebody get some use out of those shacks" she told him. "You just make yourself right at home Ben. Use the Lodge, not one of the hunters cabins... and Ben?" she asked.
"Yeah Anne?"
"I was sure sorry to hear about Ellen. She was a wonderful woman. Never had a chance to speak to you before now."
Ben coughed and sputtered a second; "Sorry, bug flew in my throat... Thanks Anne... Thanks."
"Well Ben, hate to be short but I have to go chase down my grandkids before they tear down the neighborhood!"
"Bye Anne, and thanks."
"None needed Ben. You have a good night, Bye."
Ben's eyes welled up and Ellen's face swam in front of him, floating over the road as he drove.
"Aw Jesus... not now... not..." Her face slowly nodded... as if approving of what he was doing. As if telling him, he thought, that it was about time. It was past time, that he should get back to thinking outside of his own sorrow.
"I'm sorry Ellen... I know... you don't approve of my... Temper... but... I just couldn't leave her, not with that lil' boy there... I couldn't."
His conversation, that seemed so real to him would have probably gotten him committed had it been witnessed by anyone else. Luckily, racing up I-15 toward where he'd turn off for Choteau at Vaughn, anyone that did see, would only think it a goofy old Cowboy singin' along to the radio.
It occurred to Ben, that this was the first time, he'd had the vision sober. He'd mostly marked it up in the past to his broken heart and too much whiskey.
At his words of apology, the apparition that he looked through to watch the road he was racing along, seemed to reach out to stroke his cheek...
When he'd seen her in the past, she'd never spoke... drunk on a fifth of whiskey, his emotions and thoughts running wild she was silent. Now, stone cold sober, she said softly; "It's fine Ben. I've always trusted your judgment... you couldn't leave her. It's good."
Staring at the face of the woman he'd loved, for the best years of his life, the car that was hurtling up I-15 drifted over onto the paved apron. When the tires started throwing up rocks and gravel, bumping over tufts of grass on the shoulder, Ben jerked the wheel, fishtailing the car back into the lane... Wide eyed, heart pounding, the vision of Ellen faded away with the final words; "Go, do what you must, I trust you, go!"
It took him twenty miles to get his heart rate back under control, and a few miles after that to get the tears streaming down his face to stop.
When Ben had pulled himself a bit more back into the present, he looked down and saw the fuel gauge was bouncing on a 1/4 tank, so he pulled into a gas station on the south side of Helena to fuel and get a cup of coffee.
Standing in the parking lot he thought of his daughter, and her apartment on the other side of town. Thought maybe he could go by there, and then decided, given his present predicament, it would be best to just keep his distance for now.
When he'd pulled back up on the highway to continue north, he decided he should call her though, just to let her know he'd be 'out of pocket' for a bit, so she'd not worry.
She picked up the phone on the third ring; "Dad? What's wrong?"
"Wrong? Why would something be wrong?" he countered.
"Dad, it's Karen. Remember me? I'm your daughter. You know, the one who can see through your crap, almost as good as Mom could? You never call me... what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong kid" Ben lied. "I'm just going to be up in the hills for a bit, the phone likely won't work, and I didn't want you worryin' when you call to check up on your senile Ol' Dad!"
"Oh stop it! you're not senile... and you know it... drunk and foolish maybe... crazy as a mule with a belly full of loco weed? probably... But senile? Not my Dad. Not a chance!" She retorted.
"Well, now that we've got that settled, glad to have your vote of confidence." Ben laughed.
"Dad? Has... something happened?"
"Nah... why do you ask like that?"
"No reason...it's just... you sound different Dad. You sound... steadier... stronger." She replied to her father, softly, almost hesitantly.
"Yeah... well... even old dogs can have their good days you know... Look, I'm gonna be gettin' up the canyon and lose my signal, so I'll say my adios now... and I'll call you in a few days... Ok?" he told her.
"Ok... Dad... have a good time, whatever it is you're up to" she laughed. "I love you Dad, bye" and she hung up.
Ben exercised a little discretion, and pulled to the side of the road, to let his vision clear. This time, without all the fishtailing and showers of rocks and gravel.
"I love you Dad." ... Damn! He thought. There couldn't be any sweeter words a wore out old twister like him could hear. He turned the paper coffee cup upside down and emptied the last swallow of now, nearly cold coffee, put the car back in gear, and one more time, continued north.
He figured from Ennis to Choteau should take somewhere between 5 and 6 hours, depending on how much he pushed the limit. Of course... if he kept stopping to cry like a damn school girl, he'd not get there till next week! As it was, it'd be after eleven. Too late he thought to go pulling in to those cabins. He'd told Amanda he'd likely not arrive until morning, so that's what he planned.
Once he got close he'd pull over in a wide spot and sleep until daybreak, then roll on in to link up with Amanda and little Timmy, in the daylight.
The rest of the drive went without incident. His thoughts moved from Ellen, to Karen, and on to Amanda and her son, and soon found himself thinking of her in the terms that a man often thinks of a woman. He'd push his mind back to his daughter, or Ellen... and without fail, in just a little while, they'd circle right back around to Amanda.
When it dawned on him where his thoughts had wandered, he laughed at and cussed himself; "You silly old coot! That gal is as young as your own daughter! Her Dad would skin your hide boy... if she had one.... but damn... she's sure still a hell of a woman!"
The miles floated past the speeding red car, as his mind wandered through so many long unthought-of places and times. Somehow, in ways, and for reasons he didn't understand, the crushing burden of the last few years seemed lighter. The darkness that had clouded his heart seemed less opaque... The urge for a drink, he'd not resisted since Ellen passed, seemed to have vanished.
It made no sense. Before what he was caught in now, those bankers only wanted to take his ranch. Now, the men he was up against intended to take his life, his and a girl's, and who knows what would befall her son. In the face of all that, how could he begin to think his burden was lighter?
Maybe he was going crazy. It just made no sense. But he couldn't deny it. In the space of not much more then a day, and in spite of the ugliness that he should be seeing... he felt better. Better than he had in years. He shook his head in wonder as he drove into the night. Even Karen, talking to him on the phone, had picked up on it.
Something had happened, something was happening, inside him. He didn't know what it was, but from
what he could see, at least as far as he felt was concerned, it must be good.
He pulled off in Great Falls and bought himself a good supper at a cafe' that was still open, just off the interstate. He sat there eating slowly, contemplating the past two days, and considering the future.
One man had escaped. He was wounded, but still escaped. He knew their boss was in Chicago, and he knew, in spite of a pretty successful ambush of their pursuers, that man in Chicago, was still coming. There was likely worse to come before this was over. He had Amanda and her son cached where he figured them to be as safe as he could get them, for now; but, what was he going to do? What could he do?
The thought of just living in hiding, indefinitely, didn't fit his personality. When he was threatened, his natural way was to go on the offensive. Sitting around waiting for the other guy to make his move, just felt like surrender. Ben Jensen was the sort of man that no one who knew him would ever believe he'd ever surrender to anyone... for any reason.
But how could he take the fight to Tyrone? He'd never even been to Chicago. Been a lot of other places, but never Chicago. Chasing a dangerous man in his home country was a risky proposition, especially if you're totally unfamiliar with the place. If he pursued Tyrone into his home base, it wasn't like a Montana Cowboy was going to blend into the everyday folks of Illinois!
Trouble was, what other option did he have? Tyrone was in Chicago... Tyrone was the source of this trouble... and dealing with Tyrone, was the only thing that would settle the matter. He could fight Tyrone's soldiers till Timmy graduated high school, but until he dealt with Tyrone, those soldiers would keep coming. Whether he liked it or not, Ben couldn't see any alternative to heading for Chicago.
Lost in the confusion of thoughts being chewed on in his head he didn't hear the waitress talking.
