“Gonna dust his ass?”
“I promised Mazy I wouldn’t.”
Stitch grinned. “Fuckin’ women, huh?”
Crocket chuckled as he got out of the truck and lifted the bagged rifle from behind the seat. Stitch slid over behind the wheel and strapped on a headset with a throat microphone. He watched Crockett prepare the Super Magnum while he spoke.
“So I’ll, like, cruise the area while you set up. Gets closer to the time, I’ll move north of the target and spot for ya on the other side of the house. Let ya know when they come in. When you get ready to engage, you let me know and I’ll head in and extract your ass right here. This is the ellzee, okay?”
“Okay,” Crockett replied, as he slipped five rounds into the magazine. “May have to wait an hour or more. You go ahead and drive around. Vacate the area so you don’t draw attention to us by staying to close to the ellzee. I’ll give you plenty of warning.”
“Sure. Take this, too. Might need somethin’ short range.” He handed Crockett the 686 Smith and Wesson in a high-rise holster. Crockett threaded his belt through the loop and positioned the weapon high over his right kidney.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said.
Stitch grinned. “Fuck you. Radio check.”
“Starry, starry night,” Crockett said, turning away toward the distant pile of dirt.
“Vinnie cut his ear right off his head,” Stitched answered, aiming the truck at the distant lights of Blue Springs.
Crockett crunched his way toward the hill over raw dirt. Thank God it hadn’t rained or he would have been in mud to his knees. He wore no Ghillie suit or obvious camouflage of any kind. As he walked, he slipped on thin black cotton gloves and a dark blue ski mask. Those, combined with new blue jeans and a dark gray work shirt, made him as invisible as he needed to be.
When he reached the bulldozer at the base of the mound, Crockett shook out a large garbage bag he’d kept folded in his hip pocket. He slit the sides so it unfolded into a long sheet and carried it to the top of the mound. Using the bag for ground cover to keep dirt off his clothes, he lay down at the crest of the hill, extended the rifle, turned on the scope, and looked over the back of the house.
The rear sliding door leapt into view. Jesus. More than enough light. Two hundred thirty-one yards to the near edge of the pool. Two hundred thirty-seven yards to the door. Two hundred thirty-nine yards to a table covered by an immense umbrella on the patio. What little wind there was came from behind him, and he was at about twenty-five feet above the target’s elevation. He laid the rifled carefully beside him and keyed the radio.
“Blackbird, this is Hilltop.”
“Hilltop, Blackbird. Over.”
“Blackbird, Hilltop. Good to go. Over.”
“Roger, Hilltop. Five by five. Out.”
Crockett clicked the radio back to standby, rolled to his side, pulled a slightly soft Snickers out of his shirt pocket and began to pig-out. He needed a sugar rush, too.
Traffic was almost nonexistent. Out of boredom, Crockett fired up the scope again and checked out the surroundings for a mile or so. Twice he caught a glimpse of his truck, and once a County Mountie, but the deputy never even came close to Johnny’s house. At about a quarter of two the radio broke squelch.
“Blackbird to Hilltop.”
“Hilltop. Go. Over.”
“In position, Hilltop. Freakin’ bored. Over.”
Crockett laughed. “Fun and games here. Hilltop out.” He was still chuckling when the radio broke squelch again.
“Black Lincoln sound familiar, Hilltop?”
“Roger on the black Lincoln, Blackbird. Over.”
“At the front. Three in the vehicle, one in the back seat getting out. Lincoln leaving area, two in front. Backseat entering house. Over.”
“Doesn’t match our intel, Blackbird. Continue to observe. Over.”
“Roger. Out.”
Shit. According to Christine, one bodyguard took the car, the other went to the guesthouse, and Johnny took a swim. That was the nightly routine. Only not this time. Not tonight. Crockett rolled to his back for a moment, silently cursing the stars, then resumed his position, studying the house through the scope. Nothing new. No additional lights. April must be someplace in the front of the house.
An endless hour crept by. A snail’s pace punctuated by the sounds of night birds, the occasional distant horn honk, the scuttle of an infrequent creature in the dark, and the constant fear of discovery. Christ. It was a bust. Mission abort. Just as Crockett started to key the mic, his radio broke squelch.
“Blackbird to Hilltop, over.”
“Hilltop. Go.”
“Blackbird to Hilltop. Fuck this shit. Hold your position. Out.”
“Blackbird?”
“Blackbird?”
“Blackbird, come in. Over.”
“Blackbird, goddammit!”
Shit. What the hell was Stitch up to now?
Crockett sat up to get some of his body off the clammy plastic and looked around. A dog barked in the distance. Damn! In the past two days Stitch had taken one half-day’s dose of his meds. No way to tell where his mind was. Jesus, he hoped that sumbitch hadn’t gone back to the Mekong Delta.
After five minutes or so, he was considering packing up and legging it back to the ellzee, when he saw headlights on the road behind him. As the lights came even with his position the vehicle turned in his direction, the headlights went off, and, with the light gathering capabilities of his scope, he could see Stitch driving in his direction. The truck slid to a halt at the base of the hill and Stitch bailed out and began clambering up the slope. Panting, he slid to the ground beside Crockett.
“Fuck, dude! I’m too goddam old to go running up hills an’ shit.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m joining the infantry, man.”
“What?”
“Fuck him!” Stitch snarled, getting to his feet. “Motherfucker cut Maggie’s head off. I’ll get the motherfucker outside, Crockett. You do his ass!” With that, he bolted down the hill and began trotting toward the house, slightly over two hundred yards away.
“Stitch!” Crockett whispered as loudly as he could. “Stitch, goddammit!”
It was useless. Crockett did the only thing he could do. He lay back down, turned on the scope, sighted the Super Magnum on the rear of the house and waited for Stitch to come into view. He didn’t have to wait long. Stitch vaulted the six-foot board fence like it was a curb. As he approached the sliding glass door, he turned on his transmitter. Crockett could help smiling.
“Hey, Joe!” Stitch yelled, pounding on the glass door. “Hey Joe! C’mon out. You got money? Only five darra, Joe. Me fuck you rong time. Me so hauney! Where you go, Joe? C’mon, Joe. Me got frens love you rong time. You wan’ pahty, Joe? Me give you big pahty. Pussy for you, Joe. Hey, Joe! C’mon out an’ pray.”
Stitch was about to start on his second litany when the sliding door skidded open and Johnny April, dressed in a t-shirt and running shorts, burst onto the patio. He shoved a chrome-plated auto-loading pistol in Stitch’s face with his right hand.
“Who the fuck are you, asshole?” April bellowed.
Stitch’s voice became calm and relaxed. “Maggie’s friend, motherfucker. You shoulda stayed inside your crib, man. Now you’re just a target.”
The first round from the Super Magnum only expended about ten percent of its energy passing through the back of Johnny’s right hand, but the pistol provided much more resistance, completely deforming the slug and losing its slide from the kinetic energy released with the contact, spinning away to bounce across the patio and come to rest at the base of the rear wall. So sudden and irresistible was the impact, Johnny’s hand didn’t move more than six inches, and he stood gaping at it, shattered and bleeding, still pain-free and unable to grasp what had just happened.
Realization had still not arrived when Crockett’s second bullet did. It entered the side of April’s right knee, just to the
rear of the patella. The knee offered more resistance than the hand, enough that both the ACL and the medial collateral were destroyed, as well as any supporting tissue and cartilage in the area. That round continued on, ripping into the brick veneer of the rear wall and fragmenting beyond recognition.
Johnny, still looking at his hand and suddenly without any support from his right knee, fell to his right, landing on his right side with his back to Crockett. Still hugely stunned and confused, he had yet to fully realize the scope of the events. Bewildered, he looked up at Stitch. Stitch smiled as the third round struck.
Round number three entered April’s left knee from the back, effectively completing a disciplinary measure employed in some circles known as “kneecapping,” wherein the kneecap and all of its attendant support system, a complicated and fragile collection of ligaments, cartilage, tendons, blood vessels, and muscles, are blown out of the front of the joint. In less than a thousandth of a second, Johnny’s left knee was completely destroyed. The bullet, slightly deformed and deflected by the obstacle, struck the flagstone patio and shattered. Johnny, now aware of his pain, began to scream.
“Blackbird to Hilltop.”
“Hilltop, go.”
“Come get me, Motherfucker.”
As Crockett gathered up his brass and plastic bag, Stitch, completely ignoring Johnny April, walked to the umbrella on the patio table, pulled a lighter from his pocket, and set fire to the canvas. He then scrambled back over the wall and met Crocket and the truck about fifty yards into the field. Crockett saw the reflection of the flames on the rear wall of the house.
“Christ, Stitch! You set fire to the place?”
“Naw. Just to that big fuckin’ umbrella.”
“How come?”
“Wanted to be sure somebody knew some shit went down and called 911. I don’t want that fucker to die. I want him to live without legs. What kinda asshole cuts a dog’s head off, man? Jesus.”
As Crockett drove out of the area, Stitch re-bagged the Super Magnum and stashed their equipment away. Crockett resisted the urge to speed, lit a Sherman, and looked at him from the side of his eye.
“Oh, wow, dude!” Stitch crowed. “You shoulda been there, man! I was lookin’ right into the motherfucker’s face from a little over arm’s length when you took that Browning outa his hand!”
“It was a Browning?”
“Yeah. Old chrome-plated High Power. Bam! It just fuckin’ left, ya know? Ol’ Johnny had no idea what happened. One second it was there, the next it was gone and his hand, which was okay a heartbeat ago, is totally trashed. He never even fuckin’ felt it. Holy shit! Nice shootin’, dude.”
“He gonna survive you think?”
“If he gets help before shock kills him he will. None of those wounds were fatal. Layin’ there helpless and shit while dealin’ with the fact that he is fucked up for the rest of his life is as dangerous as the hits, man.”
The sound of distant sirens echoed through the night as Crockett, slightly queasy from adrenalin, headed for Thirteen Highway’s southbound route back to sanity.
Both men were nearly exhausted when they walked into the kitchen a little after six. Zeb sat at the counter drinking coffee. A weather report was on the TV in the corner of the living room.
“How’d it go, boys?”
“Snot on a doorknob,” Stitch said, flopping onto a stool. “Ol’ Crockett is a ar-tiste!”
Zeb looked at Crockett. “You shot that feller four times?”
“Three,” Crockett said, pouring a cup of coffee. God, the pot was heavy.
“Sayin’ four on the TV. Local businessman victim of a assassin. Barely escapes with his life. Surgery for wounds. Guarded condition. Stuff like that.”
“If Crockett was an assassin,” Stitch said, “that fucker woulda misted out with the first shot.”
Zeb looked confused. “Misted out?”
“Yeah. That’s what it looks like with a headshot. Red mist. Crockett took three shots. One to keep the fucker from shootin’ me, two more to put him on his ass for the rest of his fuckin’ life. Pre-fucking-cision, man! Three rounds, three hits, less than, like, six seconds. I’m fuckin’ standin’ right there with the dude. Watched his hand and both knees get trashed. Fuckin’ righteous, ya know?”
Mazy appeared in the bedroom door in a knee-length t-shirt and robe. She squinted in the light. “Both of you okay?”
“We’re fine,” Crockett said, levering himself off a stool and moving to put an arm around her. “How ‘bout you?”
“Guess I did sleep a little bit. Didn’t think I had. You really shot him?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Crockett nailed that fucker three fuck–”
“Let it lay, Stitch,” Crockett said.
Stitch blinked. “Ah…yeah, sure, man. Uh…my ass is whipped. Guess I’ll crash for a while.”
As he turned for the door, Mazy stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Thank you,” she said.
“Crockett did all the work,” Stitch said. “I just knocked on the door. But, ah…you’re, like, really welcome, ya know? I like you dudes a lot. What are friends fuckin’ for?”
Mazy watched Stitch depart and turned to Crockett. “Is he all right?”
“He’ll get back on his medication and settle down now that it’s over. Jesus, he’s got guts.”
“What’d he do?” Zeb said.
“He deliberately put himself three feet from April, completely exposed and unarmed. The man had a pistol, cocked and ready to fire, six inches from Stitch’s face.”
“Where were you?” Zeb went on.
Crockett shook his head. “Nearly two hundred and fifty yards away, hiding behind a big pile of dirt.”
Zeb smiled. “Guess Stitch trusts ya, huh?”
Crockett returned the smile. “Guess so,” he said.
The noon news reported that the local businessman, one Johnathan April, remained in critical but stable condition after extensive surgery, as he rested in intensive care. The police had several leads in the case and were using all their resources to find and arrest those responsible. The evening news held the same line with Mr. April still critical, but stable, in intensive care.
Crockett, having napped off and on most of the day, didn’t sleep well that night. As a result, Mazy didn’t either. They were up early the next morning. Mazy slouched on a stool as Crockett prepared breakfast. When he put the bacon in a skillet, she schlepped to the TV and turned it on. April was back in the news. A reporter, on scene in the hospital parking lot, stated that Mr. April was dead. In a proud and confidential tone, she was pleased to relate further details available only through her and un-named sources. It seemed that foul play was suspected in the death, probably an embolism of some sort traveling to the heart from air forced into a vein by person or persons unknown. But that wasn’t all. It seems that Mr. April, when examined immediately after his death by members of the crack critical care team, was found to have three Maraschino cherries in his mouth. Stay tuned for more exclusive reports at noon and five.
Mazy looked at Crockett. “Cherries?” she said. “He had cherries in his mouth?”
Crockett couldn’t help but smile at the justice of it all. “Yeah,” he said.
“Why cherries?”
“Slot machines,” Crockett replied. “Looks like the powers that be at the Zanzibar Casino got involved. Three cherries and you’re a big winner.”
It was a slow day. The lack of business combined physical and emotional repercussions to keep everything very relaxed. Stitch’s medication kicked in and he straightened up considerably and went back to bed for the day. Mazy dealt with various feelings concerning Johnny April’s death. Zeb worked on winterizing a couple of rental pontoon boats, and Crockett helped. By tacit agreement, everybody but the hippie gathered in the pavilion for a late lunch of burgers on the grill. Crockett was on his first Guinness, while waiting for his first burger, when his cell phone went off.
“Hey, Crockett.”
&n
bsp; “I’ll be damned,” Crockett replied, a knot forming instantly in his stomach. “Didn’t know if I’d ever hear from you again. How’s your love life, Texican?”
“Aw, c’mon,” Clete said.
“My ass. How’s Ruby?”
“I can’t find her.”
“Funny. Neither can I.”
“Goddammit, Crockett! I mean that I can’t find her. Home phone, work phone, landline, cell phone, answering service, nothin’! Been trying for two days. Not a trace. I even called the Kaycee cops. Her place is locked up tight, her car is in the parking lot, and patients are showing up and can’t get in.”
Instantly, cold pushed its way behind Crockett’s heart. “Oh, shit,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Westbound. I crossed the Mississippi about a hour ago. This ain’t like her, Crockett.”
“No, it isn’t. Meet you there.”
“You got it, pard.”
“Much as the reason scares me, it’s good to hear from you, Clete.”
“Same here,” Clete said. “Some things never change. Call ya when I get close.”
Crockett disconnected and looked numbly at the phone for a moment.
“What’s the matter?” Mazy asked.
Crockett shifted his attention to the question. “Ah…I have to go. I not only have to go, I have to leave the coach here. Is that okay?”
“Well, sure. When will you be back?”
“I don’t know. No way to tell right now.”
Mazy looked a little hunted. “Crockett, what’s wrong?”
“A friend needs my help with another friend that could be in serious trouble. I’ve gotta go.”
“Of course you do,” Mazy said, rising to her feet as Crockett stood.
He gave her a brief hug, kissed her cheek and looked into her eyes. “I’m really gonna miss you,” he said.
Mazy’s smile was sad. “Be nice if that was enough,” she said.
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