by Ken Dickson
“He’s dead—murdered.”
“What?” I could hear him sit upright in bed.
“It happened last night. I need your help.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Twenty-five minutes later, a silver 2002 Buick Century pulled onto my pad. As soon as it turned in, I left my trailer. When Nick stepped from the car, his hair was in disarray and his clothes looked like they’d come straight out of a hamper.
“You having your laundry done by Gracewood these days?”
“Yeah, they give me a member discount. You look like you tied on a big one last night.”
“Crying most of the night and having nightmares the rest will do that.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but whenever I’m around you, BS just spews from my mouth.”
“Don’t worry. I got most of my grief out of my system last night. I’ll save the rest for the funeral.”
“That sounds mighty cold coming from you.”
“I don’t mean it that way. I’ve just got a lot on my mind. With everything that’s happened, I’m sure that this is just the beginning.”
“It’s probably for the best anyway. I’ve never been a good shoulder to cry on. I am genuinely sorry for your loss, though. Hell of a guy. I never expected it, but he grew on me. What happened?”
“He was shot and then dragged behind a car until he died.”
“That’s inhuman! I hope we catch the bastards who did it, pardon my French.”
“Me, too, but I’m not holding my breath.”
“What do you need from me?”
“It was a war zone here last night. The homes are bullet-riddled and the street was filled with shells until the cops seized them for evidence. They arrested two men who witnesses didn’t recognize, but they’re not talking. It’s a miracle that no one else died. I doubt that we have a lot of time before the next attack. I’ve got to come up with some kind of strategy to protect this place or we’re done for.”
“Okay, let’s take a walk.” As we walked down the center of the road toward the homes, and the extent of the destruction became apparent, Nick was shocked. “Dang, two guys did this? They must have been high as a kite and carrying buckets of ammo.” He kept quiet as we continued to walk, and his entire demeanor changed. After a time, he began punching and throwing kicks.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting focused, like I used to before a big fight. Helps me to think about what my opponent might do.”
“I’d pass on the kicks unless your objective is to bruise kneecaps.”
“Getting a little stiff in my old age, but my punches are still lightning fast… oomph, oomph.” He threw two surprisingly quick punches. “And my ground game is passable.”
As we continued, his eyes darted back and forth, taking in every inch of our surroundings. In addition to punches and kicks, he’d sometimes duck or dodge. From start to finish, he barely said a word until we reached the end of the road and sat on the bench.
“Here’s how I see it. We’ve got to prepare for the worst. First, get everyone out of here. There could be snipers, bombs or any number of things that would seriously injure or kill. Next, we can’t depend on the local fire department. We need proper fire-fighting equipment. Get two ten pound ABC fire extinguishers for each home. Amerex is my preference. Their all-metal heads and steel cylinders can’t be beat. Put one in front and one behind each home where we can grab them quickly. With only one hydrant, we’ll need a lot of hose: six one-hundred-foot lengths of 2-1/2 inch NST municipal rated should do it. We’ll need a hydrant wrench and two Dixon Powhatan brass rack nozzles with hose adaptors for the two 2-1/2 inch outlets of the hydrant. Put three hundred feet of hose on each outlet with the nozzles on the ends. Pressure won’t be great without a pump, but we’ll have to make do. Block the road with SUVs two rows deep. Park them all the way across the top of the hill so that nothing can get past. I know you guys aren’t big on firearms, and that’s fine by me….”
“Engineering came through at the last minute with some adhesive loads last night. Missed the main culprits but stuck those two other guys right to the pavement.”
“That’s good. Definitely have a stock of those handy. You should also overnight some Peppershot: paintballs filled with capsaicin II powder. Each shot will unleash a cloud of powder five feet in diameter upon impact that will render anyone helpless. Have a dozen snipers in full desert camouflage and bulletproof vests scattered around the perimeter, and make sure that you have someone in each home. Those extra eyes could really make a difference.
“We don’t have that many people in Security.”
“Get some residents to volunteer. They know the homes best anyway. And buy some Motorola walkie-talkies for everyone. Set them on the same frequency and give everyone an earpiece so that the whole… darn world doesn’t hear them.”
“Nice save.”
“A work in progress. I think that’ll do it. If I come up with anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Nick. I’ll inform Steve of your recommendations. Would you mind getting involved with this? Having you here would help me to rest easier.”
“I can bunk up in your trailer if you’d like. It’d be just like old times.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re more than welcome. It’s no five-star hotel, but it’s better than Gracewood.”
“I’ll get some things and come back later.” We walked back up the road to his Buick.
“Nice ride.”
“It was a real steal. Belonged to a retired vet and hardly has any miles on it. Sure don’t miss taking the city bus everywhere.”
“I’ll bet. Thanks for coming. I really appreciate your help.”
***
Nick’s input came none too soon. Only a few hours later, we received a tip through Jessie from an anonymous informant—something big would go down on June 17th. Unfortunately, that’s all she could tell us. Over the next few days, the residents of Primera evacuated aside from a few volunteers. The only other people on site were from Security. Early on the 17th, SUVs drove into place, blocking Shaughnessey Road. A dozen snipers, some from Security and others residents of Primera with only a few hours of training, took up posts around the perimeter. They sported camouflaged protective gear, bulletproof vests, and hoppers filled with Peppershot. Each also carried a spare hopper on their belt filled with adhesive loads. Lastly, attached to the hydrant, the fire hoses lay coiled in readiness.
A half-hour after sunset, a camouflaged man carrying a three-gallon gas can painted the color of desert granite came out of nowhere and crept stealthily toward one of the homes. A barrage of Peppershot left him writhing in agony before he knew what hit him. Two more tried the same tactic a few houses down and met an identical fate.
The stream of attackers from the desert continued for several minutes. In all, ten young men—just kids, really—were captured and then bound hand and foot with nylon wire ties. When it was over, they were brought to the cul-de-sac. They had no ID or phones on them, and they kept their mouths shut as if their lives depended on it. Someone had clearly planned well. As several security officers guarded them, I met with Nick and Steve.
“Now what?” I posed. “We can’t turn these guys in. They’ll be back on the street in hours, and we’ll catch hell for shooting kids with Peppershot.”
“I vote we take them into the desert and burn them with their own gasoline,” fumed Nick. “Make it look like a mass suicide.”
“That would certainly thrill the press, but I have a feeling it would somehow get pinned on us. Steve, what do you think?”
“I like the desert idea. Why don’t we drop them off in the middle of nowhere and give them a good scare? Maybe leave them some water. If they play their cards right, they’ll make it to safety.”
“Pansy,” seethed Nick.
“Come on, Nick. We’ve got to use our heads, or we’ll only make ma
tters worse for ourselves. That’s a great plan, Steve. Nick, do you think you could convince them that it wouldn’t be in their best interests to set foot in Primera again?”
“Sure, but I’d prefer to rip their puny heads off. How about I do that to one of them? That’ll scare them plenty. And then we can dump them in the desert.”
“I’d be visiting you in prison instead of Gracewood if I agreed to that. Let’s stick with scaring them.”
We returned to the prisoners, and Nick began his act. He took off his shirt and with muscles rippling, tore it to shreds. Then he blindfolded each boy with a piece of it. We loaded them into three minivans, drove south and then west of Maricopa to a little used dirt road and then another ten miles north on the dirt road into the barren desert where we stopped and unloaded them. Nick continued his act, bending down nose to nose with each of the blindfolded boys and giving him a personal earful. I was relieved that he employed real curse words, or we’d have all been laughing. It was a fearsome display by anyone’s standards, and it was a wonder that none of them pissed their pants. Afterward, with capsaicin-loaded paintball guns aimed at them, we cut their wrist restraints, leaving the ankle restraints for them to figure out, and made our way back to the vans. Before leaving, we heaved two cases of bottled water into the desert that we’d taken from one of the homes before leaving Primera. Then, we turned the vehicles around and drove home.
On the way back, I sat next to Nick in the second row of seats in a van. Once his adrenaline subsided, I shook my head and grinned. Nick noticed immediately.
“What?” he growled, looking like the devil incarnate.
“You kill me, man. You nearly frightened those kids to death, and that was some feat tearing your shirt into just the right number of blindfolds.”
“Dumb luck. I would have torn yours up next if I’d come up short. By the way, you owe me a new shirt,” he said, glaring at my shirt. Then, he burst into laughter. Moments later, I joined him. Although that laughter provided a measure of relief, something told me that we weren’t in the clear yet.
Chapter 43
SUITE 103
Seventeen-year-old Terrance Jones knocked twice on the steel door of suite 103, paused, knocked once more and then waited nervously for a response. The deadbolt turned and the door creaked open.
“’Sup, Antone? Willy here?”
“Yeah, he’s watching the news, only he ain’t seeing the news he expected.”
“Shit. Is he pissed?”
“Won’t be if you got good news.”
Willy walked out of the office to see who’d knocked. “Hey, little man, what’s the word? You get that video for me?”
Terrance lowered his gaze and then sheepishly held out a small camcorder.
“Did my best, but it ain’t what you asked for.”
“Why the hell not?”
“They got ’em. Got ’em all. Their cars, too.”
“Fuck. What happened?”
“I ain’t never seen anything like it. The boys kept comin’, but one by one they popped ’em. But they didn’t die. They went down yellin’ and cussin’ and couldn’t do shit.”
“Where are they now?”
“Don’t know. They cuffed ’em, blindfolded ’em and took ’em away in some vans.”
“God damn it. I knew I shouldn’t have sent boys to do a man’s job. Give me that camera, and get the fuck out of here before I beat you senseless.” Antone opened the door for him.
“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” he said. Terrance handed Willy the camera, backed through the door, turned and ran. Antone shut the door and locked it.
“Let’s see what the fuck happened,” fumed Willy.
***
After watching the video, Willy shook his head in disbelief. “Must be some kind of poison or something. They’re clever bastards. I’ll give them that.” He stood and paced for a considerable time before saying anything else. “I’ve got it. You’re going to love this.” He tore a sticky note from a pad on his desk, wrote three lines on it and handed it to Antone.
“A dust control truck? What the fuck is that?”
“It’s a water tanker they use at construction sites to keep the dust down.”
“Where the hell am I supposed to find a snowplow in Phoenix?”
“Plenty of them in Flagstaff.”
“Why on earth do you want a fuel tanker?”
“I don’t. I just want the fucking fuel. Make sure it’s full.”
He shook his head and wondered if Willy had lost his mind. “Okay, if I get these for you, what’s your plan?”
As Willy explained, Antone nodded in approval.
“Awesome. Fucking awesome. You are one sick fuck.”
“Why are you still here? I want those fucking trucks now!”
Antone secured the vehicles in two days and then spent the next three preparing for a cataclysmic showdown with Primera.
Chapter 44
THE FRUIT OF HATE
Antone speed-dialed Terrance as he drove the behemoth orange MACK Granite snowplow from the passenger seat with a single joystick of the Spektrum RC radio sitting on his lap. Beside him, a twelve-volt motor spun the steering wheel with sprockets and a chain, and two power window motors actuated the gas and brake pedals using lever arms in response to his subtle finger movements. “Terrance, turn left ahead and wait for my call. If you don’t hear from me within the hour, split.” He ended the call. Although Terrance was only seventeen, he’d been running errands for him since he was thirteen. Not only was he a hell of a driver, he was someone he knew that, despite Willy’s doubts, he could count on. As they passed Twenty-Eighth Avenue, Terrance turned.
It surprised him that no one gave the snowplow a second glance the entire drive to Primera, but that’s how it was in the big city. People were locked into their own little worlds. He looked in the mirror at Willy right behind him driving a rusty, sunburnt white Ford 8000 dust control truck from the same seating position as him. A few minutes later, with the entrance to Primera in sight, he pushed the joy stick slightly to the right and pulled it back past mid-stick to slow the truck to a stop on the side of the road and then lowered the plow blade. He left the engine running, the transmission in drive and exited the vehicle. Willy followed suit. The two men then padlocked the doors using steel brackets MIG-welded to the door and body of each vehicle. Afterward, carrying their radios, they crossed the road and made for the brush at the left side of the entrance, their camouflage quickly melting into the desert.
***
It was June 22, 2014, just over three years after my release from Gracewood. As Beth drove me home that day, we held hands the entire way, aside from when she needed to shift the manual transmission of our blue 2005 Kia Spectra. When we arrived home, the dogs went berserk: howling, barking, jumping on, and licking me. After that, Beth and I spent the afternoon getting reacquainted. A lot has changed in three years, I thought as I sat in my trailer with Nick, taking a much-needed break from my uneventful shift as a lookout on the rock.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” said Nick, producing a cupcake with three candles on it.
“What’s this for?” I asked as he struck a match and lit the candles.
“It’s your anniversary, isn’t it? Three years since Gracewood. Make a wish.”
“That’s for birthdays. Besides, you’re a week late.”
“Just make a frickin’ wish and show a little appreciation for a change.”
I blew out the candles and split the cupcake with him.
“You’ll make one hell of a husband. I bet you’ll remember every special occasion.”
“I’ll do my best—this time. Anyway, happy anniversary. Here’s to many more years of freedom.”
“Bunking with you in Gracewood was one of the best things to ever happen to me. Cheers.” Until recently, we would have clinked beer bottles in toast, but, wanting to remain in top form, we instead clinked water glasses.
“This is Ken. Over.”
“Sorry about the short notice, but we just received word from Jessie. Her informant says an attack is imminent. Break’s over. Get some eyes back on that rock.”
“Ten-four. On my way.” I clipped the radio to my belt and turned to Nick. “It’s going down. Get with Steve. I’ll head back to the rock.”
Nick set down his glass, squeezed around the table, grabbed his gear and left. I put my earpiece in, rushed out the door, grabbed Emma’s binoculars from their box and climbed the rock. What I saw almost made me fall off. I fumbled for the radio, nearly dropping it, and pressed the talk button. “Steve! A snowplow is headed straight for Primera—and fast!” The truck engine bellowed at full throttle as its transmission shifted through gear after gear.
“Roger! Scrambling the troops.”
As I watched in disbelief, the truck crested the top of the hill. Spike strips deployed just in time, but the blade kicked them aside, leaving the tires untouched. It continued on, smashing through the SUVs and sending them spinning like Matchbox trucks. As it accelerated down the road, paintball fire erupted from both sides, covering the windshield and windows with glue. Clouds of Peppershot disappeared into the vents at the base of the windshield and filled the interior to no effect.
Under the light of the streetlamps, I noticed that the snowplow’s bed was filled to the brim with volcanic cinder. Nothing would stop that truck. Unimpeded, it roared toward the cul-de-sac. Seconds later, its blade sheared the fire hydrant from the sidewalk and launched the two coiled fire hoses into the air like party streamers. Losing no speed, it burst through the pool fence and dove right into the pool, emptying a quarter of it in one giant wave. It continued through concrete, rebar, pool decking and dirt before finally coming to rest behind a mountain of debris. Its soaked engine sputtered and died, and a cloud of steam belched from its hot exhaust.
