by Bradley West
“Rosa, which group do you want to join?” Sal asked. “No one will leave you behind either way.”
“I want to be as far away from here as possible,” she replied.
“Then join Sal,” Carla said. “They’re headed to Canada straight away. We’ll wait here for Steph and Greg. Any objections if I count them as part of our group?”
“None,” Sal said. “I can’t imagine Steph wanting it any other way.” He noted with satisfaction that each side had a critical mass of shooters, with Jaime his head of security. Melvin’s choice puzzled Sal, given his vote for nonviolent Carla just the other day.
Melvin embraced Pat. “I’m with you to the end.”
Pat teared up. “Without my daughters to lean on, I’ll be a heavy load.”
“The Lord provideth.”
Sal watched quietly. It was an interpersonal dynamic he respected but didn’t understand.
“Sir, I have an important question,” Tom Strub said in a quiet voice, looking around to ensure no one was eavesdropping.
“We’ll need to elect a leader tomorrow. Don’t worry; your father will be a strong candidate.”
“Oh, that’s not what I had in mind. Our group is thin on single women other than my sister, who’s already tight with Johnny, and Rosa, who’s in Jaime’s sights. Melvin, Tien and I will be lonely in Canada unless we add young women.”
Sal burst into laughter. “Keep your eyes open! The 3M is certainly on the lookout for a few outstanding women, but we have to pick them based on more than their Tinder photos.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Frontier Justice
Saturday, July 18, 2020: Spice Land, Idaho, late night
Glenn had left Spice Land in a rage. Returning to the home where June and he had lived for more than half of their forty-year marriage hadn’t improved his mood. He’d buried June not three months ago, and the house was full of her memories. Every time he turned around, he saw a photo, bumped into one of her infernal side tables or caught a whiff of potpourri or scented candles. After she’d suffocated in a Boise ICU, intubated and dehumanized, he’d tried to clean house, but none of the Grangeville charities would accept donations from a Covid victim’s home. Screw them. He’d finish it once and for all.
The first four hours had been full of sweat and tears as he stacked her cutesy replica furniture in the front yard and piled her clothes under, over and around all the other useless books and knickknacks he never much cared for. These next three hours, he’d sat on the porch and drank moonshine, uncertain if the bullet chambered in his Mossberg Patriot LR Hunter had Ryan Spicer’s name on it or his own. Formerly busy Highway 95 was deserted and the front yard was doubly quiet with not even a bird chirping. As day slid into moonless night, he still hadn’t eaten and the bottle of ’shine was down to the last four fingers. He shuffled off the stoop and put a match to her clothes and nothing happened once, twice, three times. In a fury, he stomped back to the porch and fetched the mason jar. One last sip for old times and the rest of the holy water sloshed onto the pile. A single match sent the flames skyward in a whoosh that damn near singed his eyebrows. Once the fire took hold, the blaze leaped up ten feet high and the heat beat him back to his rocker.
Minutes later, five motorcycles and a pickup truck pulled up his driveway, and a half-dozen men made their way past the bonfire toward his home. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about what these greasy bikers wanted. Everything that mattered had died in April, and when the flames extinguished themselves, his last ties to a meaningful life would disappear as well. Glenn hoped to God these swaggering thugs would try to bully him. He’d leave the planet a better place if he put the Mossberg through one last rapid-fire drill.
In the flickering light, he saw a man in black with platinum blonde hair and an ugly scar on his maskless face. “Good evening, friend,” the man said. “Have you seen an RV in the last few days? It would be big and new.”
“I’m not your friend and you’re trespassing. What’s it to you anyway?”
“The group driving the RV has something of mine. I want it back. There’s a reward.”
Glenn pinched more Skoal and repacked his lower gum. “I don’t lack for anything a reward helps, but I know where two big Winnebagos sit not ten miles from here. Arrived earlier this morning.”
“Two? Anything else traveling with them?”
“There’s a big white truck and a couple other pickups or some such.” Glenn leaned inside the door and came back with the Mossberg held upright.
The bikers drew their pistols, but the boss raised a palm.
“I seen ’em them through my scope at a half-mile. Maybe fifteen or twenty people wandering around.”
The bikers lowered their weapons and drew nearer. Everyone wore a leather vest and most looked to be intoxicated or crazy, or both.
Glenn had an idea. “Maybe there’s something you can help me out with after all.”
“As long as you take us to those RVs, we’ll help you do anything you want, provided it takes less than an hour,” Scarface said.
“Perfect,” Glenn said. “Someone needs killing in the worst way. It’ll take no time at all once you boys get me inside the fence. Better still, it ain’t hardly out of the way to those two RVs. Give me a minute to fetch a box of shells.” He disappeared inside the house, the screen door rattling shut behind him.
“No one speaks to this old fool but me until we spot those RVs,” Muller said. “I don’t want to put him off. As for the rest of it, let’s see how it goes.”
* * * * *
There was no doubting Meatball Matt’s culinary abilities: Caesar salad, antipasti, veal parmigiana, asparagus spears and sorbet. Stephanie and Greg had declined the offer of wine, leaving him to work solo through a bottle of fine Amarone. No one spoke much at dinner. After Matt cleared the plates, he turned the focus to business. “I appreciate we’re no longer flying tomorrow. I have to warn you that the longer we wait, the higher the chances are that our pilots are sick, fly off or can’t source jet fuel. Best we make bookings tonight for the day after tomorrow if that’s the plan.”
Greg nodded at Steph. Tyson had fed well on the day and was down for the next few hours. Steph looked as relaxed as she’d been in a long time. “It’s complicated,” she said. “Let’s start with Tyson’s surgery. If Mona operates tomorrow, she’ll need an anesthesiologist and that’s another dose gone. She’ll also need fifty thousand in cash for miscellaneous expenses and personnel. Mona will need to reverse the procedure in two or three weeks and replace the flap of bone she’ll remove from my baby’s head. For that to happen, she’ll have to fly with us.”
“We’ll need a bigger plane if you’re inviting the entire circus,” Matt said as he topped off his wine glass. “But the pilots whose names and numbers are on that paper I gave you can fly prop planes too, so that changes nothing.”
“Dr. Almeida won’t fly up to Idaho unless she’s a confirmed member of the 3M,” Greg said. “We have a scheduled call tomorrow at 8:09 a.m. We’ll propose to vote both you and Mona into the 3M. That means you’ll fly up with us after the operation.”
“That sounds great. What’s the catch? Besides the fact that you’ll have IOUs out for five doses and only four shots?”
“We need to raise the fifty thousand in cash tonight,” Greg said. “You said that a pickup with over half a tank was worth thirty thousand. Steph’s engagement ring cost fifteen thousand. We’ll owe you the last five and pay you on landing in Idaho.”
“Before we talk dollars, explain how you propose to stretch the shots?”
“We have no choice: two for the doctors and two for the pilot, plane and jet fuel. We’ll give you a shot on arrival at our camp. Everyone who joins receives a shot to maximize mutual protection.”
“I invite you into my home, introduce you to the top pediatric neurologist in the city—”
“Your ex,” Stephanie interjected.
“Don’t interrupt. You reneged on our first agreement, but
I carried on and took you two to the hospital where you cut a new deal with Mona. I drove your baby and you back to my home, prepared a gourmet dinner and waited until dinner was over to discuss life-and-death matters. Your proposal is that I give you fifty thousand dollars and surrender my promised injection. That’s the deal? Get out of my house.”
Greg saw Matt’s logic. “Fair points. Here’s why you’ll do it. First, I’ll hand you the model names for the lab equipment. Second, you’re clear to corner the market on the lab gear needed to batch the treatments. Third, I’ll give you a pint of my immune blood to kickstart the process. You’ll have thirty-six hours to buy up equipment, recruit scientists, advertise on the dark web, whatever. But first I want to talk to a pilot to confirm our arrangement for Monday morning.”
“I don’t agree to any of that,” Stephanie said. “That’s a perversion of the—”
“What Greg said, or no deal,” Matt said.
“You have my word,” Greg said. “Let me speak with a pilot.”
Steph fumed, her calm ruined by these two connivers.
* * * * *
Travis raised their hosts on the shortwave. “This is Pinto. I repeat, Pinto. As advised, we’re leaving now in a black Silverado and arriving via the external road. Over.”
“3M, this is Aragorn. Acknowledge main road. Also, Covid tests negative and no hazmat suits required. Over.”
“Copy,” Travis said.
Tom and Yonten waved the Silverado out of the compound and locked the west gate behind them. There weren’t many clouds, and the night sky featured a million stars once they’d left behind the ambient glow of the battery-powered lights and a modest campfire. The unattended SAW sat out of sight on a mound outside the gate with a field of fire encompassing the convoy and the perimeter road.
Travis drove the Silverado down the dirt road that traced the fence. “How long did you and Sal work on the breakup plan before launching it?” Travis asked.
“Just tonight for a half-hour over dinner,” Carla replied. “It came as a surprise, but most of what he said makes sense, so I approved it.”
“No need to be defensive. If I were Sal, I would have made the same move. He wants to stay under the radar and you’re like a moth to a flame.”
“You’re free to join him.”
“Sal and I spoke while you were changing. He said staying here might be sensible if you reach an agreement with our hosts. It’s off the beaten path and there are enough bodies that I should be able to train up a decent Spice Land militia. We have good water and that fence is useful too.”
“We just hide out here while I create propaganda recordings to keep the feds off my back and spend the rest of the time manufacturing the Dark Cure and instructional videos?”
“I can’t think of a better way of achieving your goal of saving people while staying alive and out of custody. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
“Fine.” They drove over a dirt road in silence the next several miles before turning down an oiled gravel road liberally signed with No Trespassing: This means YOU! Trespassers will be SHOT! and the knee-slapper, We Feed Trespassers to our Pigs. Two men out front opened the gate and used a flashlight to show them where to park.
Arkar and Travis acquiesced to Carla’s demands that the M-4s remain in the truck on the floor under blankets. Both men wore their sidearms openly, with Arkar’s sheathed A-Klub extending most of the way down the diminutive man’s left thigh. Their flashlights probed the darkness while dubstep music throbbed from unseen speakers and colored lights punched the sky. A smattering of mobile homes, portable cabins, and half-built one-story wooden buildings stood farther back.
Marsh Woodley stepped out of the gloom and bathed them with a handheld halogen beam before mercifully lowering it and announcing himself. “Come on over. We’ll find Andrew and have a chat.”
“Why the guns? We’re preaching nonviolence and love,” Marsh asked Travis on the walk to the main office. “Tonight’s ceremony is a celebration of my best friend and our leader’s life. Armed people will kill the vibe.”
“Carla’s our leader, the key to the Dark Cure and wanted by the feds. I know she told you no weapons, but I head the group’s security detail and I overruled her. If that’s a problem, we’ll leave now. Just ask one of your men to show Arkar where our supplies are and we’ll be on our way.”
“No, no. Please stay. Andrew and I need to speak with you about something important. Besides, you can meet the Spice Landers at the party.”
“Where’s Andrew?”
“He’s in the management doublewide just ahead. He recalled the first shift sentries tonight to give the men a break and ease the tension. His brother Ryan fired the head cowboy today and the men are demoralized and angry. Maybe music and a little bathtub gin plus the possibility of female companionship will cheer them up.”
Shorty stepped out of the night and introduced himself. He and Arkar headed off to count fuel drums and pallets in the warehouse. Carla, Marsh and Travis ducked into the trailer to find Andrew toking off a roach clip. “Sorry about this techno shit,” Andrew said through the haze. “Bob only played reggae, so it was time to give the kids a turn. Can Marsh and I have a word in private with Carla?”
“I can wait outside if you like,” Travis said to Carla. She shook her head.
Andrew read volumes into that exchange. Marsh was right—she was with the gimp. “We have a problem. Bob died without naming a successor. Ryan decided he was in charge and in the space of one day has most of our salaried staff threatening to quit. That’s why I relaxed security tonight—if I didn’t let the sentries come to the party, they probably wouldn’t have come back.” Andrew lost his train of thought and stared at Marsh while he sipped out of a red Solo cup.
Marsh took up the thread. “Ryan’s shitfaced and dancing up a storm. We’ll give him another couple of hours and then put him under house arrest.”
“This really isn’t any of our business,” Carla said. “It sounds like we should leave and come back tomorrow—”
“Stay,” Marsh pleaded. “We have a favor to ask—two favors, actually. As outsiders, could you wander around and chat with our people? Introduce yourselves and ask them how things are going? The Spice Landers are out of sorts after Bob’s sudden death, Glenn’s departure and Ryan’s lunatic act. We’d be interested in your read.”
Carla looked at Travis and he shrugged in acceptance of what his PR-minded leader had already decided. “Sure,” she said. “Just as long as Travis and I stick together. He’s my partner and bodyguard, and it will prevent misunderstandings. What’s the second item?”
“Tomorrow we’ll send over the rest of your supplies,” Marsh said. “If you could deliver the first batch of the Dark Cure, that would help legitimize Spice Land’s new leadership. Andrew and I will be coheads of the commune. We’ll announce we’ve ostracized Ryan too—he can’t return to Spice Land for one year under threat of death.”
“I’m not certain we want to be taking sides in what’s—” Travis began.
“No, that’s fine,” Carla said. “Just realize that I’ll be working all day tomorrow to make the first batch of twenty-four doses. We can spare fifteen shots to start, and Travis and I can bring them over at breakfast the day after tomorrow. If I work every other day, there should be enough to rebuild our group’s reserves and inoculate your members within ten days. We’ll need your first recipients to become plasma donors starting five days after their shots. This system works only if everyone pays it forward.”
Andrew and Marsh looked at one another. “That should be fine,” Andrew said. “Thanks much for your help. Why don’t we grab a drink? The gin punch packs a wallop.”
Gunfire sounded near the main entrance. Travis looked at their two hosts and they were as clueless as he was. He unholstered his Glock and grabbed Carla by the elbow. “Those are pistol shots. Let’s find Arkar and get out of here.” They rushed out of the trailer and stepped into the shadows while Travis kicked himself for
being unprepared.
Seventy yards away, motorcycle headlights bobbed and weaved inside the main gate. With Harleys on either side, a pickup with its high beams on roared toward them and beyond another twenty yards before slamming to a stop. Doors popped open and Rolf Muller leaped out brandishing a pistol. Travis had Muller dead to rights, but with an exposed Carla by his side, he lowered his weapon and the couple stayed unseen in the shadows.
A man with a rifle stepped in front of the truck, headlights to his back and face obscured. The music had stopped and the firing died out. “Ryan Spicer! Face me like a man!” he shouted.
“Let me go!” someone shouted. “I’m not afraid of that asshole.” At the periphery of the headlights’ illumination, a lone figure advanced toward them. “I’m here, Glenn. You going to fight me straight up? How about knives? Pistols? What’ll it be, or are you yellow?”
Glenn raised his rifle and snapped off a shot that knocked Ryan Spicer onto his back. The old cowboy worked the bolt and chambered another round. He didn’t bother to inspect the end result. “Never bring just a big mouth to a gunfight,” he said to no one in particular. To Muller, he said, “We’re done here. I’ll show you where the RVs are. Tomorrow, your boys can come back and take their picks from fifty women, I shit you not.”
“This was a private matter and it’s over,” Muller said in a loud voice. “Don’t get involved unless you want to end up like him.” He gave the roundup gesture and said to the bikers, “We’re headed out. Follow me!” As Ryder hesitated, Muller jumped back in the pickup and executed a high-speed bootlegger’s turn before driving out the gate.
Carla darted past him toward the trailer as Marsh and Andrew ran to where Ryan lay. “They’re headed for camp! Call them on the shortwave.”
Travis followed Carla into the trailer and they found Spice Land’s ham radio on a shelf. Travis powered it up and tried in vain to raise the 3M—no one was monitoring their frequency. “Goddammit! Forget this. We’ll take the pickup and try to stop them before they reach camp.”
