Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1)

by Trevor Scott

  He shrugged and climbed a small hill, his feet slipping on the wet mossy surface. When he was nearly to the top of the hill, his feet slipped and he fell backwards, rolling down the hill, his head hitting the ground hard and stunning him.

  Not sure if he had been knocked out, or if he had simply been concussed marginally, he lay with his face against the wet ground, his eyes seeing flashes of movement just inside the trees to his right. The drops pricked his skin like a thousand little needles falling from God. A feeling of complete euphoria overcame every cell in his body, his mind not understanding the loud noises that sounded like someone was smashing pans together.

  When more movement came from the trees some twenty yards away, he rolled slightly on his side for a better view. Then he saw it. The face and shoulders of a furry beast.

  The last thing he said was “Sasquatch.”

  35

  By the time Ben heard the next shot, he was at least a quarter mile deeper into the Siuslaw National Forest. He picked up his pace now, keeping his eyes open for any movement ahead. He lifted his AR-15 to the shooting position, his focus through the open sites, ignoring for now the holographic red circle. Instead of using a scope for this rifle, which would have been useless in this thick forest, he was glad he had stuck with the more open options. He could acquire a target and fire without worrying about lens refraction or moisture blur.

  Another shot. This one was closer. And the shot was followed by yelling. But it wasn’t English. It was both Spanish and Russian. The voices echoed through the thick forest and the heavy drizzle, the sound getting closer with each step Ben took.

  He lowered his rifle to get through a thick patch of young spruce. When he came through the other side, the forest opened up slightly and angled down a gully.

  Ben stopped and crouched down, his rifle shoved into his right shoulder and his eyes picking up a target. Two men hid behind large fir trunks separated by about twenty yards, their focus on a spot at least fifty yards or more farther down the hill.

  He calculated the distance to be right at about a hundred yards. Not a difficult shot, but did he have the authority to take the shot. After all, these men were not trying to kill him. Not yet.

  Trying to get a little better view of the men, Ben didn’t recognize either of them. However, they could have been part of the shooting team that attacked him at Marlon’s house, along the forest road, and the men at the truffle camp.

  Now he heard a radio squawk, followed by what must have been Russian.

  Then he saw the foreman, Carlos Sala, peer out from behind a large hemlock tree in the distance.

  He needed to do something or these men would call in their friends, if they had not already done so. Luckily, if the other men cut across country it would take them quite a while to fight through the brambles.

  Yet, his bigger problem was the fact that he didn’t know the full nature of the situation. What if the foreman was the killer of Marco Alvarez? Perhaps.

  Ben rose up, his rifle still aimed at one of the men down the hill. He needed to close in on them, but still maintain his high ground. So he vectored to his left, which would keep the men in view and give him a better view of the foreman. Finally he reached a massive fir and set himself up behind it, his view coming from the left side of the thick bark. Now he guessed he was about seventy yards from his targets.

  Time to change the scenario. “Federal agent,” Ben yelled, startling the men down the hill. Technically not true, but it would throw the men off. Make them consider their actions.

  The men turned and tried to find Ben, but by now he guessed he would be barely visible to them, especially under these weather conditions and the darkness of the forest cover.

  One of the men got his radio and spoke into it, while the other shifted his position to hide from Ben.

  Pulling out his radio, Ben pushed the talk button and said, “I’ve got two targets and the foreman.”

  A few seconds passed and finally Lester responded. “Roger that,” the deputy whispered. “I’ve seen flashes of movement just ahead of me. They’re moving now toward the south.”

  “Heading toward my position,” Ben said. “I’ve got them pinned down.”

  Suddenly both of the Russians started shooting toward Ben. But they only had semi-automatic handguns. Ben was barely in their effective range. Based on the number of rounds flying through the forest, he guessed they must have been firing 9mm rounds.

  “You hear that?” Ben said into his radio.

  “Yes, sir,” Lester said. “If they’re firing on you, fire back.”

  He had identified himself as a federal agent, and the Russians had still fired on him. He set the radio down and aimed his AR-15 toward the closest man, who was now hidden somewhat by the large tree.

  Ben found a small target. The left arm and shoulder holding the handgun. A southpaw. Ben calmed his breathing, set the red circle on the target, and pressed off one round, hitting his target. The man dropped his gun and fell to his knees. Then he reached out with his right hand and found his gun before scooting back behind the tree.

  Now bullets started coming from the foreman’s position. Carlos Sala also had a handgun.

  The Russians were now stuck in a crossfire.

  Ben had an idea. He knew a little Spanish, so he yelled out to the foreman saying who he was. The two of them had met a number of times and Carlos would trust him. Then Ben yelled in English, “We’ve got you completely surrounded. Drop your weapons.”

  The Russians laughed and yelled back in their language.

  All right. Have it your way, Ben thought. He switched to the second target and fired off about half of his 30-round magazine, ripping the shit out of the bark in front of the man. Now they knew they were outgunned.

  But Ben also knew that the men were simply holding out for their buddies to show up. He guessed there were at least two or three more men, including Vlad Grankin and his bald-headed associate. And he had no idea what kind of firepower the others might have. Hopefully they only had handguns.

  Ben had to get more control of the situation. He needed to get to Carlos. He had just one track to make it to the man, and that would not be easy.

  With resolve, he sprinted across the hillside, keeping hidden behind as many trees as possible.

  The two men sustained fire, the bullets ripping through the rain and bursting through tree limbs. He stopped to catch his breath behind another tree.

  From this location, Ben could see the foreman much better. He pointed for the man to move toward him while Ben covered him with his rifle. The man nodded.

  As soon as Carlos started running and the Russians saw his movement, bullets started flying at the man. But Ben quickly opened fire at the Russians, forcing them back around the other side of their trees. When the Russians tried to fire, Ben pushed them back until Carlos came crashing to the ground behind Ben.

  “Am I glad to see you,” Carlos said, out of breath.

  Ben replaced his empty magazine with a full one, releasing the bolt on the first round. Then he pointed his rifle at the foreman and said, “Put down your gun.”

  “What the hell,” the foreman said.

  “Do it,” Ben demanded. He would have to have the sheriff’s department check the man’s handgun for ballistics to see if that was the gun that had killed Marco Alvarez.

  “We are on the same side.”

  “Until we sort this out,” Ben said, “I’m only on my side.”

  Reluctantly, the foreman threw his 9mm handgun toward Ben, who picked it up and checked it over. It was a Glock just like the one on his own hip.

  “Why are these men after you?” Ben asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Carlos said.

  “We’ve got a little time.”

  After a bit of hesitation, Carlos said, “I was a member of the Salvadoran Army during the Civil War. In the same unit as Hernando Alvarez. Our leader was a brutal man. We did not agree with his tactics. But what could we do? We were only young
men at the time, doing as we were told.”

  “You were part of a Death Squad,” Ben surmised. He kept his eyes on the Russians in case they decided to bolt.

  “No, no, no. Well, eventually our unit became known as the Diablo Company. Hernando and I found out that our captain was selling us out to the guerrillas. We were both wounded in a raid in the mountains. Because of our wounds, we were discharged. But only with the help of a Catholic priest.”

  “Let me guess,” Ben said. “Father Murphy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And he helped you both come to America.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did Marco Alvarez get involved?”

  Carlos shook his head, obviously reticent.

  “I can turn you over to these Russians,” Ben said.

  “No, they killed Marco.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I remembered Vlad Grankin from El Salvador,” Carlos said. “When he came around to try to buy the winery, I saw him. And I never forgot the man who sold out my company. The Russian saw me talking with Marco one day and he must have pieced it together. Marco looks just like his father did back in El Salvador. Grankin must have made the connection.”

  “Why did he let you live?”

  “I don’t think he recognized me. I look different now.”

  Ben let out a deep breath. “All right. But that doesn’t explain how you got up in the Siuslaw today with the Russians chasing you.”

  “That sheriff’s deputy kept coming to ask questions,” Carlos said. “I assumed Grankin was back to his old tricks and had this deputy on his payroll. They were going to pin Marco’s murder on me. Or worse.”

  “So, you contacted Grankin yourself. What did you plan to accomplish?”

  The foreman sat dejected. Finally, he said, “I was going to kill Grankin before he killed me. That was until I saw both cars pull up behind my vehicle. Then I knew I was outgunned. I had no choice but to escape into the mountains. This is much like my home in El Salvador. Of course, much colder.”

  As they sat, a cloudy mist of fog rolled in from the west, enveloping the Siuslaw in obscurity. Ben would see and then not see the two Russians below him hiding among thick hemlocks and Douglas Firs.

  Getting on the radio again, Ben pushed the talk button and whispered, “Are you almost with us?”

  He waited and watched the foreman, who looked more afraid than when he had been getting shot at by the Russians.

  “I hate the fog,” Carlos said. “It’s God’s camouflage.”

  Finally, Ben’s radio squawked twice, meaning Lester couldn’t talk. Ben guessed his old high school friend had his radio turned down low and was closing in on the others. The fog obscured not only the scene in front of him, but Ben’s mind as well. He was starting to question the reality of his situation. It was as if the fog had put him in a spell.

  36

  First came muffled sounds of Russian, echoing through the mist. Then came movement in the fog, large and dark and shuffling as if they had lived on the mountain their entire life. But Ben couldn’t be sure about any target, so he couldn’t pull the trigger.

  When shots finally rang out again, Ben raised his rifle toward the flashes, unsure if he should fire back. He shoved his back against the rough bark of the fir and saw that Carlos lay on the ground in a fetal position with his hands over his ears.

  His radio squawked and Ben turned it up and said, “Say again.”

  “They’re all firing at me,” Lester said. “Fire only once with your AR so I know where you are. I’ll return fire with one shotgun blast.”

  “Roger that,” Ben said. Then he raised his gun barrel and shot once in the air toward the west. A second later and Lester fired his shotgun.

  As soon as the shotgun blast stopped echoing in the mist, the Russians opened fire. This time they aimed at both Lester and Ben. He could hear bullets striking the other side of his tree.

  Ben looked around the right side of the tree, the red circle of his holographic sight finding the muzzle flash. He pressed the trigger five or six times and then scooted back behind the tree.

  His breathing heavy, Ben glanced at Carlos, who now sat back against the hillside, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Did you see them?” Carlos asked.

  “Yes. That’s why I shot.”

  “No, I mean the creatures.”

  “It’s hard to see much of anything in this fog,” Ben said. “We just have to hold this position long enough for backup to get here.”

  “No, no,” Carlos said, his head shaking wildly side to side. “The creatures are here.”

  The man was delirious, Ben thought. He knew that some were prone to wild imagination during stressful firefights. He had seen it before in soldiers. The mind sometimes can’t process the inevitability of impending death.

  Suddenly, someone screamed below. Followed by more shooting. Ben glanced around the tree trunk and saw what he thought was a large, dark figure moving swiftly below. He had worked with snipers in the war, wearing ghillie suits for camouflage. Was it one of those? Then it was gone.

  Then came more yelling and screaming below. First it was almost a painful wail, like a bear that had been shot and was giving one last breath before dying. That was followed by a burst of Russian. And finally, the Russian morphed into English. The men said they were dropping their weapons and giving up.

  “It’s a trick,” Carlos said.

  Ben wasn’t sure what to think. He got on the radio and talked with Lester. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Lester said. “I keep thinking I see things. I’m confused.”

  Thinking about his own view of what happened, Ben couldn’t be a hundred percent certain.

  Then, just as quickly as the fog had rolled in, it dissipated and drifted to the east. Now Ben could see the men below, standing together with their hands on their heads.

  Ben swapped out a partially-used magazine for a full 30-round one, and then he stood up and helped Carlos to his feet. Together they wandered down the hill toward the Russians, Ben keeping his AR-15 at the ready. From the east came Deputy Lester Dawson, his shotgun aimed at the men.

  The man Ben had shot was sitting on the wet forest floor. One other man, the bald man who had been with Grankin, lay behind the men. He was either dead or simply knocked out.

  Ben covered the Russians as Lester collected guns. Then the deputy found zip ties in his backpack and strapped their hands behind their backs. There were five men. Three without any wounds.

  Once the men were zipped and sat on the ground, Ben checked on the unconscious man. The bald man had no pulse. But he also had no bullet wounds. Ben rolled the man from his stomach to his back, and finally saw the wounds on his face. It looked like the Russian had been hit with something—like a huge stick. His nose was crushed and his jaw was out of place by a few degrees.

  “He’s dead,” Ben said to Lester.

  Vlad Grankin finally said, “Did you see them?”

  “See who?” Ben asked.

  The Russian shook his head. “Never mind.”

  Lester called in their GPS position on his SAT phone. But he quickly switched from that phone to the radios, since the backup was close enough now.

  Nodding his head for Ben, Lester drifted away from the Russians. Ben followed.

  Lester said, “I don’t know how to say this, Ben. But I saw some strange shit here.”

  “The fog?”

  “It wasn’t just the fog. It was something or someone in the fog.”

  Ben tried to think about his own recollection, and he was having a hard time discerning his own thoughts. “I saw movement, but I couldn’t shoot. I had no idea of the target. Not until I could aim at the shots being fired.”

  “Same here,” Lester said. “And that’s what’s going into my report.”

  “What about the dead Russian?” Ben asked. “Who did that?”

  Lester shook his head and shrugged simultaneously. “He must
have been running and fell.”

  “Fell hard,” Ben said. “Or his own men took him out.”

  Ten minutes later and a full SWAT unit poured in from the east, their weapons at the ready. The SWAT team leader came up to Ben and Lester.

  “We found a guy back on the trail a ways,” the SWAT team leader said. “I left one of my men with him.”

  “Long gray beard?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah. He took a fall and was delirious.”

  And high as a kite on mushrooms, Ben thought.

  It was a long walk back to their vehicles. Ben escorted Marlon ahead of the SWAT team and Deputy Lester Dawson. The sheriff’s deputies had patched up the man Ben had shot in the shoulder, so he could walk on his own. But the man who had died mysteriously had to be carried out on a make-shift stretcher. Because of their slow pace, Ben and Marlon had gotten back to the vehicles before anyone else.

  Marlon was still tripping like an early 70s hippie at a rock festival, his mumbling to himself incomprehensible.

  Ben made sure to take Marlon’s keys. The man was in no condition to drive.

  Once Ben got Marlon’s vehicle pulled out of its position blocking the road, they were safely on their way down the mountain.

  “You believe me, right?” Marlon said.

  “Believe what?”

  “Weren’t you listening to me?”

  Was the man actually trying to convey information to Ben? “I’m sorry, Marlon. I was preoccupied trying to figure out this case.”

  “I told you, I saw Bigfoot up there.”

  Ben turned to look at the former professor and then back to the muddy road. “Say what?”

  “Just after you left me alone in the forest,” Marlon said. “Sasquatch appeared in front of me.”

  “Was that before or after the fall?”

  “Just after. But I was not impaired by that.”

  “What about the mushrooms?” Ben wanted to know.

  “The mushrooms just enhanced my senses. They didn’t make me see something that wasn’t there.”