by Scott Blade
There was a Taliban lieutenant, not a top boy, but important enough to be on the USN’s radar. He had a lust for Weihrauch guns. He liked the .38 Special, in particular. Widow had no idea why. Maybe he watched American cop shows as a kid or maybe he liked the old black and whites of the forties and fifties, where guys like Bogart pulled out a police .38 on the bad guy.
Jürgen had told Widow about the Weihrauch Windicator. Only in English it was pronounced Vindicator. Seemed like a good name for gun.
The .38 Special in Molly DeGorne’s glove box was a cheap gun to get. It had a two-inch barrel and held six rounds. This one had a nice black finish to it. The whole thing was probably less than three hundred dollars landed.
Cheap didn’t mean weak. A .38 Special was a .38 Special no matter the cost, and Germans knew how to make a quality gun. It wasn’t a preferred weapon of choice for any serious SEAL anywhere. But in the civilian world, it would get the job done.
Widow pinched the map between his index, middle finger, and the rubber grip of the .38, and pulled both out at the same time.
He said, “That’s a serious weapon.”
DeGorne looked over at it. The expression on her face, for only a moment, was one of fear and recognition, like she had forgotten the gun was there.
“That’s for protection. This is the middle of nowhere,” she said.
“You keep it loaded?” Widow asked. He weighed it in his hand, over a flat palm. The map underneath.
“It’s no good to me unloaded.”
He shrugged, and said, “I’m not arguing with you there.”
Widow could see that she was nervous that a stranger she’d met just two hours ago was handling her gun. He reached forward and returned it to the glove box, barrel facing out and away from both of them.
“No! I’ll take it. It won’t do me any good if I leave it here.”
Widow handed it to her, grip first. She took it and slid it into one of her cargo pockets.
Widow lifted the glove box lid, and snapped it shut. He pocketed the map into his back pocket.
DeGorne walked to the rear bench of the Bronco and took out both bags. She slipped the backpack on and dragged the duffle on the ground.
Widow had gotten out and walked over to a folded tarp. He started to cover the Bronco, like he saw the other vehicles.
“You need help with that?” He nodded to the duffle.
“No!”
Widow stayed quiet.
“Sorry. I mean, I got it. You can cover my truck. If you don’t mind.”
“Sure.”
Widow pulled the tarp all the way up and over. He checked it. Tied it down with some bungie cables he found. And walked around it. It looked secure.
“Okay.”
“Let’s go. We’re walking up a trail. Through those trees over here.”
DeGorne pointed. Widow nodded and stayed close to her.
After a minute of dragging the duffle bag, she stopped and said, “You know. It would be cool if you can carry this for me.”
“No problem.”
She dropped the reins to the bag and Widow grabbed them. He heaved it over his shoulder.
“This is heavy.”
She said nothing.
“What the hell is in here? Bricks?”
She smiled and chuckled. Then she said, “A million dollars in cash.”
Widow laughed too, but for a moment, he did not doubt she was joking.
CHAPTER 19
THE LEADER STOOD IN THE DOOR. Five of the seven members of his team were still asleep. All of them shared a house with a “for sale” sign stuck in the yard out front. The house had been on the market for seven weeks. No one would be coming by, not while they crashed there.
The members of his team were asleep because he had ordered them to sleep. They did whatever he ordered them to do. And tired soldiers were only half as good as well-rested ones.
The leader and one other guy, one of his most loyal, had their masks off. No reason to hide their identities from Portman now.
The two of them were downstairs in the cold basement.
Sheriff Portman was naked. He lay on his back, across a cold metal folding table. His eyes were bloody. His nose was broken and reset and then broken again, and then reset again. Now, he had duct tape stripped across it. Keeping it together.
He hurt everywhere. But he had not given her up yet. He had not given DeGorne up.
They tried to get it out of him. But he told them nothing.
The leader spoke in Spanish to his guy, who did not speak English at all.
He said, “He is a tough old bastard.”
“What do we do now?”
“We keep at him.”
The guy yawned and said, “I should get some sleep. You should get some sleep.”
“You’re right. Of course.”
“We can try again after the morning.”
The leader said, “I don’t want to let him rest.” He added, “Let’s go for one more hour. Then, if he holds out, he deserves a break.”
The guy nodded.
The leader said, “Let’s mix it up a bit.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Wet Willy.”
The guy looked at him, and said, “Will that work?”
“Why won’t it?”
“He’s American.”
“So?”
“Wet willy as a torture technique is a cartel thing.”
“And who the hell do you think we work for?”
“Cartel, I know, but will that work?”
The leader looked down at Portman.
Portman was whispering to himself, over and over. He said, “I held out. I held out.”
Then he said some nonsense about Vietnam. And something earlier about a debt.
The leader said, “We give him the American version of Wet Willy.”
The guy smiled. The leader smiled.
The American version wasn’t what Americans thought of when they heard Wet Willy. They American version was what the US military called water-boarding.
CHAPTER 20
WATERMOTH WOKE UP EARLY in a motel room that looked like all the motel rooms that the FBI had put her up in a hundred times before.
She was on the second floor, a non-smoking room. She knew that because the FBI insisted on non-smoking rooms.
She slept in a short t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms. A gift from one of her nephews, which meant it was a gift from her sister. They hated that she was single and slept alone and slept in her underwear. They always had hated that of her. She was the oldest, and they had all shared a bedroom until she was in junior high. Back then she had slept in her underwear.
Watermoth jerked the covers off the bed and jumped up. She was groggy. She needed a cigarette. She went searching for one in her briefcase. She found a pack of half-smoked Newports. She took one, and a lighter, and went into the bathroom. She folded the top seat of the toilet down and plopped down on it. Then she got back up and flipped the bathroom vent switch on.
The vents kicked on.
She returned to the toilet seat and lit a Newport.
She inhaled two long puffs. And exhaled in relief.
Just then her smartphone rang. She hopped up and ran into the bedroom, grabbed it.
It was Collins, she guessed, because it was a local area code. And no one else had her number.
She answered it.
“Collins? You’re an early bird?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Collins, just call me Watermoth or Joanna. Not ma’am.”
“Yes. Joanna.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“We got the report back from forensics.”
“Go on.”
“Both victims at the stationhouse were killed by the same bullets.”
“Which are?”
“Nine-millimeter parabellums.”
“The most common bullet known to man. Great! Did you call me this early just to tell me that?”<
br />
“No, ma’am.”
She took another drag from the Newport.
“Sorry, Joanna.”
Watermoth said nothing.
“I do have some good news.”
“Yes?”
“The shrapnel from the blast through the rear door.”
“Yes?”
“They isolated the pieces.”
“And?”
“They separated the wood from the door, the metal from the lock, the grease from the lock, and the explosive parts.”
“And?”
“You were right and you were wrong.”
“How so?”
“The tests came back to identify the pieces used in the breaching device as military grade, but not police grade. Nor is it used in either.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s not the kind used in either police departments or the US military.”
She shook her head, took another drag. Inhaled it. Exhaled it.
“But.”
“But?”
“But I took it upon myself to go further with my investigation.”
“Jesus, Collins, you sound like a television cop. Just spill it already.”
Collins said, “Yes, ma’am. Joanna. I found that it’s not US military or police force. And it’s not because it’s outdated. I looked a little further into it and the types of explosive breaching charges that are still built with this material are still used in Mexico.”
Watermoth’s eyes lit up.
“Mexico?”
“Yeah, by both the Mexican Army and the Federals or Fedlospollos?”
“The Federales?”
“That’s the one.”
“That’s the Mexican Federal Police.”
“Yeah.”
“You did good, Collins.”
He started to speak, but she hung up.
She smoked the rest of her cigarette. Thought about the Federales. Someone had their equipment. Someone who took Portman, raided his station, killed a cop, and was out there. What the hell did they want?
CHAPTER 21
RYMAN SLEPT THREE ROOMS OVER from Watermoth. He was fast asleep when one of his two phones rang. It was the only one that had the ringer turned on.
He opened his eyes, didn’t stress about being woken up. He didn’t stress much about anything. A skill that he had learned on the job.
He sat up in the motel bed and tossed the sheets off. He planted two bare feet on the tile and walked over to the table. He picked up the burner phone.
“Hello?”
A voice spoke in Spanish.
“It’s me. You alone?”
“Yes.”
The voice switched to English.
“Good. Any news?”
Ryman said, “Not yet.”
“What about the cops?”
“They sent the FBI.”
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“We gotta get her first. We gotta get that money.”
“You’re the one who left it behind!” Ryman said.
He heard the leader breathe, heavy over the phone. He breathed out. The disappointment in his voice was unmistakable. But Ryman didn’t care. He wasn’t one of the leader’s men he could just order around.
The leader said, “Careful how you speak to me, Agent Ryman.”
“You don’t scare me. This whole thing is your fault.”
“How you figure that?”
“You forgot the money! How could you forget the money? That’s what you were there for in the first place.”
“We asked Mike where it was. He didn’t know.”
“You believed him?”
The leader paused and looked back at the basement door from the kitchen of the house he and his men were squatting in. He said, “I’ve had plenty of experience interrogating people. Trust me.”
“Maybe you were too easy on Mike?”
“Easy? He stole money from me! From us! It was not easy. I shot him. I lit him on fire. He told us where the money was. It wasn’t there. What were we supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Check it before you killed him and set his whole house on fire?”
“You’re the one who told us he was alone in it.”
“He was supposed to be. The wife was supposed to have moved out. He told me she was leaving him. At least, he thought she was.”
“Sounds like you’re the one who made the mistake.”
Ryman said, “Doesn’t matter now. Now we have to find her.”
“Any idea where she is?”
“Not yet. But I’m embedded with the FBI agent. I’ll find her.”
“Good.”
“What about Portman?”
“That’s why I’m calling. He has told me something.”
“What?”
“He swears he doesn’t know where she is. He’s telling the truth. He probably told her not to tell him. But, he said she will be calling him.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You got his phone? We didn’t find it.”
“We have it.”
“Good.”
“Ryman, stay with this FBI agent.”
The leader clicked off the phone.
Ryman tossed it onto the bed. He dropped back down onto the mattress and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 22
WIDOW’S LOOKOUT WAS SET UP HIGH, built up on a long, tall ridge connected to the mountain. The highest peak was separated by jagged cliffs and rock formations and green and red plant life. The sun beat down hard on the mountain several hours out of the day, nourishing the plants and trees with its light and killing them with its heat.
He had separated from DeGorne just as she told him and went uphill. She took the duffle bag and dragged it behind her. Widow walked up to the base of a trail that led up to Lincoln Ridge lookout.
At the start of the ridge he was standing on the upward slope, where he found an obvious trail that led into packed trees. Behind him was an incredible view of rolling valleys and grass and brush and trees.
He stopped and stared out as far as he could see, more than once.
Gray Wolf Mountain to his back, he could see one hundred eighty degrees in a western direction. Although, he couldn’t see the ocean, he knew it was there somewhere. It was too far away. But it was there.
He was miles from anywhere, in the middle of nowhere. Miles from nowhere, even.
Then a thought occurred to him. He had only the clothes on his back. If he ended up staying there for more than a week, he’d have to wash his clothes every few days in a river or whatever. Which was no big deal, he guessed.
The sun was positioned in the sky around the ten-thirty a.m. position, he figured. He was far from the 101. That was for damn sure.
Widow turned to stare at the trail leading up the ridge. There were two wooden signs posted and staked into the ground. Each with an arrow, pointing in opposite directions. One read “Nickel Lake” and pointed one direction. And the other read “Lincoln Ridge Fire Lookout.” Which was his. The two twenty-one.
Widow started up the path to the Lincoln Ridge. The path led on flat for a good long walk, more than a football field, maybe one hundred fifty yards. There was a section where he had to climb up and over some rock formations. Not a big deal. It involved grabbing onto ropes that were already fastened into the rock face and pulling himself up using manmade foot indentions. Once he got over the rocks, the rest of the trail was merely an inclined slope upward.
Widow came to a grassy area, half-red, half-green, with many tall trees. They looked like Bishop pines, with low branches curving out and up. Pinecones were scattered under the branches of each. They had some thinning green on top, like a receding hairline.
Most of them were tall.
Widow walked through them until the area opened up to a big clearing on top of the highest point on the ridge. And there it was: Lincoln Ridge Lookout, two twenty-one.
A sign staked near the botto
m of the camp confirmed it.
Without realizing it, Widow called out. A habit of good manners, he figured.
“Hello?”
No answer.
“Is anyone there?”
No answer.
The tower was like the last one he had been in, years ago, only it had more stone involved in the construction. There was a stone base at the bottom. It led up to a staircase that wrapped around wooden stilts, like the other one had.
The stones were painted white. Underneath the stilts was a small wooden structure with a door that was padlocked. The lock appeared to be old and slightly rusted, but sturdy.
A single cropping of wires taped together led out of the structure from the back. The same wires were connected to a series that ran up the tower to the station on top. Widow followed the other end, which led east. It was held up off the ground by short telephone poles. High enough to keep critters from chewing on the wires, but low enough for him to reach by going up the climbing rungs without fear of falling to his death.
The rungs were there in case he needed to work on the wires, he supposed.
His eyes followed the wires until they stopped at a small structure about fifty yards from the stone staircase. Next to the structure was a gas-powered generator. There was a tank already hooked up to the back. And probably a couple of spares in the structure at the bottom of the tower.
The structure next to the generator confused him for a moment until he realized what it was. It was an outhouse. Which made sense. The fire watch station wasn’t going to have indoor plumbing.
Widow turned and went up the staircase. As he climbed, he stopped periodically to see the views from his elevated position. It was all pretty breathtaking.
Then he noticed a glimmer of light to the southwest. He squinted his eyes and saw it was DeGorne’s lookout station. She was pretty far, but not too far. Her station was just high enough above the tree line to be visible with the naked eye.
Widow continued heading upward on the staircase. At the top platform, he took another view over the horizon. It really was a majestic sight. He saw trees in the distance, some thick, maybe redwoods. He saw low mountains and one tall mountain, Gray Wolf. He saw the sunbeams spray across everything.
He turned to the station on the top level. The windows were all boarded up, which was probably a precaution they did every year when they closed up shop. The deck wrapped around the entire station. The boards creaked under his weight like they had gotten stiff from being unused for the last six months.
