Redzone

by William C. Dietz

  Lee followed a lane to the back row and hooked a right. Then, when she saw an empty slot, she pulled in. “Grab your stuff,” she said, “and follow me.”

  After retrieving her pack from the back Lee left the car unlocked with the key in the ignition. She was concerned lest a salesperson intercept them but none did.

  “That was slick,” James said admiringly, as they walked towards town. “The cops will have to pay close attention to find it.”

  “It should take a while,” Lee agreed. “But this town is too small for us to hide in. So we need to find another ride. How well do you know Indian Springs?”

  “Pretty well,” James replied. “I’ve been coming here all my life.”

  “Do you know where the post office is?”

  “Sure, it’s about four blocks south of here, and off to the west.”

  Lee glanced at her watch. It was 4:33. “Okay, we’ll need to hurry. Chances are that they close at five.”

  Lee increased her pace and James hurried to catch up. “So what? Why do we care?”

  “Back when I was a patrol officer, my partner and I had to deal with lots of car thefts . . . And a surprising number of them occurred at the local post office. That’s because some people like to run in and leave their engines running. And the local car thieves knew that. Who knows? Perhaps some of the locals do that too.

  “We can’t stand around though,” she added. “That would attract the wrong sort of attention. We need to spot a car, jump in, and take off quickly. Then we’ll head back to the highway and put this town behind us. Las Vegas is less than an hour away.”

  “Got it,” James said. “You are one very bent cop. And I mean that as a compliment.”

  “Thanks,” Lee said, as the post office came into sight. “And one more thing . . . Don’t shoot anyone.”

  * * *

  The sun was just about to set, and dark shadows lay everywhere, as the chopper roared up the valley. It looked like what it was—a machine made for killing people. And it was no more related to Heevy’s helicopter than a dog is to a wolf. The barrel of a minigun protruded from the ship’s nose, a pair of stubby wings were hung with rocket launchers, and machine guns were mounted just inside both doors.

  The helicopter circled the Heevy mansion twice before flaring in for a landing on the well-lit helipad. That was when Crystal Bye felt a gentle thump and stood. She was wearing a headset and knew that the team could hear her. “Okay . . . You know the drill. Let’s put some security around the ship and keep your eyes peeled. Remember, Qui confit amittit. He who trusts loses.” And Bye took her motto seriously. She heard half a dozen mike clicks as she jumped to the ground.

  A man in Western garb came out to meet her. “Howdy,” he said. “My name is Bruce Heevy . . . I’m one of Hiram Heevy’s sons.” He extended a hand, which Bye chose to ignore.

  “My name is Crystal Bye—and I own the Dragon Security company.”

  Bruce let the hand fall. “Glad to meet you,” he said lamely. “My father is waiting.”

  As Bye followed Bruce toward the house, two of her operatives fell in behind her. Enough to put up a very good fight if she was attacked. They were clad in military-grade body armor—and equipped with stubby submachine guns. The threesome followed Bruce to a side door—and from there into the house.

  * * *

  Hiram Heevy struggled to push his way up out of a leather chair as Bruce entered the great room. Then, with his canes to stabilize him, he waited for the party to march the length of the room. “Father,” Bruce said, “this is Crystal Bye. She owns Dragon Security.”

  Heevy was surprised to say the least. Bye was at least six feet tall, appeared to be about thirty years old, and had shoulder-length white hair. Her eyes were pink and her skin was the color of milk. An albino then . . . Just one of the many thousands of mutations produced by B. nosilla. Bye was dressed in body armor over a skintight bodysuit, and was armed with two mini Uzis, one holstered on each of her slim thighs. For looks? No, Heevy didn’t think so. He cleared his throat. “Welcome to our home, Miss Bye. Please . . . Have a seat.”

  “I prefer to stand,” Bye responded. “You have an assignment for us? What is it?”

  “You get right to the point,” Heevy said approvingly. “I like that. Yes, I have an assignment for you. Unfortunately, one of my sons murdered one of my wives, and . . .”

  “Please spare me the details,” Bye said dismissively. “How many targets are there?”

  “Two. One male and one female.”

  “How much of a head start do they have?”

  “About six hours.”

  “Do you know where they were headed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. That will be two hundred thousand nu—half of which is payable now. So would you like to hire us? Or should we leave?”

  Two hundred thou? That was more than twice what Heevy expected to pay. Maybe he’d been wrong to contact Dragon Security. Maybe he should . . . Bruce interrupted his thoughts. “We don’t have much choice, Father . . . Not if we want to leave the house, stroll the grounds, or visit the mine.”

  Heevy thought about that. Bruce was right . . . James was likely to be angry. Very angry. And James could shoot people from a long way off. So like it or not, he would have to pay. “Yes,” Heevy said reluctantly, “I want to hire you.”

  NINE

  LEE’S RIGHT FOOT was all the way to the floor, and the pickup was barely doing 35 mph, much to the frustration of the drivers who came up behind her. Many of them flashed their lights or offered her an obscene gesture while passing.

  Part of the problem was the full load of hay bales in the bed of the truck. But the main issue was an ancient engine that was in need of a complete overhaul. All of which meant that the fugitives wouldn’t be able to run should the police come after them.

  Beggars couldn’t be choosers however, and the ancient especiale was the only vehicle that had been left running outside the post office, probably because the owner feared that once they shut it down, they wouldn’t be able to start it again. Lee had the same concern and wasn’t about to turn the engine off until they were in Las Vegas. And now, with only ten minutes left to go, the odds of making it into the city looked good.

  Lee figured that the authorities in Indian Springs had notified the Las Vegas police about the car theft by then, but every police force of any size received hundreds of such reports each day, and typically gave them a low priority. Still, the sooner they got rid of the vehicle the better. Lee took the first exit she came to—which led her to the oddly named Horse Drive.

  From there they followed an arterial into a poorly lit maze of mostly uninhabited two- and three-bedroom homes. Lee figured the area had been a prosperous suburb at one time but that was prior to the plague. Now it was an ocean of abandoned houses, graffiti-covered walls, and looted strip malls.

  There were islands of civilization, though . . . Places where one, two, or three families had banded together to create an urban fortress. Outposts that often had watchtowers, defensive walls, and free-fire zones. It looked like a tough way to live.

  As the truck lurched through potholes, and was forced to navigate around burned-out wrecks, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the neighborhood was a dangerous place to be. Especially at night. So rather than dump the pickup there—Lee drove it south through mostly deserted streets into the community of North Las Vegas.

  The farther south they went the more streetlights there were. Well-kept houses lined the streets, the amount of vehicular traffic increased, and pedestrians could be seen. They even passed a patrol car headed in the opposite direction. Lee watched the taillights in the rearview mirror as she waited to see if the cruiser would execute a U-turn and come after her. It didn’t. But how long would their luck hold?

  Lee began to look for a place to park—and wound up choosing a slot next to a feed store. Perhaps people would assume the load of hay was related to the store in some way. If so, they wouldn’t repor
t the pickup for a day or so. “The cops don’t know we were the ones who stole the truck,” she said. “Not for sure anyway . . . So let’s wipe it down. There’s no point in leaving prints behind. By the way . . . are you carrying a cell phone?”

  James nodded. “Yes.”

  “Is it on?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Leave it off. They can use it to track you otherwise. Okay, let’s get to work.”

  The wipe down was complete ten minutes later and they could walk away. Once again the key was left in the ignition. Hopefully, if things went well, the vehicle’s owner would be able to retrieve the load of hay.

  The next step was to find a place to stay—and James wanted to go downtown. Because, according to him, “there will be lots of people there—and we’ll be less noticeable.”

  Lee couldn’t argue with his logic so she went along with the suggestion. After getting directions from the clerk in a convenience store, they walked two blocks to a bus stop. Twenty minutes passed before a bus arrived—and once they got aboard there was standing room only. That was when Lee realized that most of the passengers were headed for work. A lot of servers, clerks, and maids were required to run a casino-hotel complex. And the bus offered them a cheap way to commute.

  It wasn’t long before the bus turned onto South Las Vegas Boulevard, and ten minutes later they were rolling down the so-called Strip, with hotels and casinos on the left and right. Except that many of them were little more than empty shells now. After millions died, and the worldwide economy tanked, there were a lot less people who were willing to risk what they had on a roll of the dice.

  So brightly lit towers had been transformed into dark, brooding places, many of which were infested with what James referred to as “human rats.” That was why the bus didn’t stop at the Trump International Hotel, the decrepit Palazzo, or the fire-ravaged Imperial Palace. All of which lurked in the shadows as if ashamed to be seen.

  But at least half the city’s famous casinos were lit up, still open for business, and providing jobs for the people on the bus. And when the bus paused in front of the Monte Carlo, James urged Lee to get out. “I stayed here before,” he said. “And the rooms are nice.”

  Lee had no reason to object so she didn’t. James led the way into the hotel. There was a constant stream of people headed in both directions. Most were in a good mood—and appeared to be having fun. Once in the hotel’s cavernous lobby they paused. “I’ll register for both of us,” Lee said. “And I’ll try to get adjoining rooms.”

  James shrugged. “Works for me.”

  Lee was forced to wait in line before she could approach the registration desk and make her request. She knew cameras were tracking her every move. But the security system was there to serve the casino complex rather than Hiram Heevy. So it was unlikely that the mining magnate or his employees would see the video.

  After providing false names and enough cash to cover two rooms, Lee made her way over to where James was seated. “Okay, here’s your keycard. And here’s a slip of paper with the room number on it. Are you hungry? If so, there’s a restaurant on the other side of the lobby.”

  As it turned out James was hungry, and although Lee couldn’t eat with him, she could get something to drink. So they went over, were shown to a booth, and took their seats. James ordered a large meal—while Lee had a Diet Coke with a straw.

  Once the waitress left Lee thought the conversation might turn to Monica and the love affair that precipitated her death. It didn’t. As far as Lee could tell, James felt little or no remorse and spent most of his time living in the moment. Talk centered around the hotel, the people seated near them, and what he could expect in Pacifica. “Mother told me that you are noncommunicable,” Lee said. “Once the authorities confirm that they’ll turn you loose.”

  James took a sip of beer. “Then what?”

  “That’s up to you,” Lee replied. “Perhaps you should go to school and get a degree.”

  James frowned. “I didn’t like school . . . It was boring.”

  Lee shrugged. “Maybe you should consider a vocational school . . . Lord knows we need carpenters, plumbers, and electricians.”

  James didn’t object, but Lee got the impression that her brother wasn’t excited about the prospect of going to any kind of school, or having a job. Both of which would be necessary once he was admitted to Pacifica.

  After James finished his dinner, they left the restaurant and made their way over to a bank of elevators. “I’ll do some research tonight,” Lee promised. “Maybe we can take a bus to Primm . . . Or rent a car. In any case let’s get an early start. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds painful,” James said. “But I’ll be ready.”

  “Good. And, James . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t party. Stay in your room. If you go downstairs the mercs might spot you.”

  “Yes, downstairs, Mother.” He said it with a grin, so Lee let it go.

  Their rooms were next to each other, and James waved as he slid the keycard into the lock, opened the door, and disappeared.

  Lee’s room was what she expected it to be, which was to say nice, but somewhat worn. It was as if a thousand people had slept in it since the last reno. Lee dropped the pack onto a chair and went over to the phone. She was ravenous by then—and the room service lady promised to send her meal up within twenty minutes.

  Lee made use of the intervening time to unpack, surf the local Internet via the terminal on the desk, and make some phone calls. A bus was scheduled to leave for Primm at 8:15 A.M., and she planned to be on it. Would James show up? Lee wasn’t sure. But if he didn’t, that would be the end of the relationship. Lee intended to honor her mother’s wishes as long as James continued to cooperate. But if that stopped then she would leave him to deal with his father on his own.

  When the knock came Lee was careful to eyeball the busboy through the peephole before letting him in. And even as he placed the tray on the desk, Lee was holding the Glock behind her back. The food wasn’t as hot as Lee would have preferred, but the lukewarm steak was still reasonably good even if the fries were limp.

  After finishing her meal Lee decided to take a bath before going to bed. She locked the door, turned the water on, and got undressed. The hot water felt good. Very good. And the combination of a full stomach and heat made her feel sleepy. So when the man kicked in the door, the action caught her by surprise. He was wearing a black hood over his head and pointing a pistol at her. A noise suppressor was screwed to the end of the barrel. “Hola, chica,” he said cheerfully. “I like your tits. Where do you want it? Left tit or right tit?”

  All sorts of things flickered through Lee’s mind. The ease with which Heevy’s hired killers had closed in on them, her failure to shove the rubber stop under the door to the hallway after receiving the meal, and the fact that she didn’t want to die.

  So Lee brought the Smith & Wesson up out of the bathwater and pulled the trigger. Because of the angle the hollow point passed through the top of his mouth, pulped part of his brain, and blew a hole through the top of his skull. He toppled back through the doorway and hit the floor with a thud. “What an asshole,” Lee said, as she got up out of the tub.

  She was reaching for a towel when James appeared just beyond the dead assassin. The Browning was ready. His eyes grew bigger as he stared at her naked body. “What happened?”

  “What do you think happened?” Lee demanded crossly. “Now stuff your eyes back into your head—and call the front desk from your room. Tell them you heard a shot, opened the door, and saw a man run down the hall. Hurry!”

  As James left Lee hurried to pull her mask on and dry herself. It was necessary to step over the dead body to reach the room beyond. Then she made a call to the front desk. “Reception . . . How can I help you?”

  “I heard a loud noise,” Lee complained. “Like a firecracker going off. It woke me up.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” the man on the other e
nd of the line said. “Other guests have complained as well—and security has been notified. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Lee replied. “Or will be if I can get back to sleep.” And with that she hung up.

  “I made the call,” James said, as he entered the room via the connecting door. Lee had wrapped herself in a towel by then. “Good. Pack your stuff. If the security people come by, tell them you heard a bang, and nothing more. Got it?”

  James nodded. “Got it.” He disappeared.

  Lee had to step over the body again to enter the bathroom. That was when she flipped the revolver open and emptied the cylinder. The bullets rattled as they spilled onto the counter. The weapon was made of stainless steel and not likely to rust. But it was better to be safe rather than sorry. So Lee placed the handgun on the counter, aimed the hotel’s hair dryer at it, and turned the device on. A strategy she had used before.

  Then it was necessary to search the body. Unfortunately, the assassin’s bowels had emptied shortly after his death, and the stink was horrible. But Lee forced herself to go through the assassin’s pockets. That effort turned up a backup magazine for the .22 plus the keycard that had been used to enter the room. How was such a thing possible? Hundreds of maids worked for the hotel. Lee figured that one of them was a little bit richer than she had been that morning.

  In addition to the keycard Lee found a small two-way radio, a comb, and a hundred nu in a variety of denominations. No ID though . . . And that made sense. Professional hit men don’t carry items that could lead the police to their employers.

  Lee put the pistol, the extra mag, the money, and the radio on the dresser while she hurried to get dressed. Then she went over to empty her pack onto the bed. That’s what she was doing when James reentered the room. “Lord . . . It stinks in here.”

  “Really?” Lee inquired. “I hadn’t noticed. Shit! Here it is.”

  James came over to look. “Here what is?”

  “A tracker,” Lee said, as she held the tiny transmitter up for him to look at. “Your father had someone place it in my pack. That’s how they found us. I’ll get rid of it on the way out.”