Ground Truth

by Rob Sangster

  Gano rolled up the window and checked his watch. “Three seconds until Dumpster numero uno—”

  Ka—BOOM!

  The wall of the building next to them lit up in a brilliant flash. The air rattled like hail hitting a metal roof. There were shouts everywhere, even a couple of cracks from a rifle.

  The blast was more powerful than he’d expected. His voice was gruff when he said, “Jesus, Gano, what did you use?”

  “Best incendiary money can buy. Semi-plastic gel. Stuff ain’t cheap when it comes out the backdoor, so don’t forget to reimburse me.” He checked his watch again. “Right about now.”

  Ka—BOOM!

  This one sent a message that the first explosion was no accident. Now everyone knew the plant was under attack. Four guards ran out of the grove of trees toward them at breakneck speed. They crossed the path of the Trash Taxi without registering it as a source of danger.

  “Forward, Don Quixote,” Gano shouted, “into the fray!” He rolled down the window and banged his hand on the truck cab.

  Jack jammed the accelerator to the floor, making the truck lumber forward like a crazed hippo, gaining speed on the dirt track.

  Ka—BOOM! A fireball lit the darkening sky behind them.

  “Yee-haw!” Gano yelled. “Might have overpacked that puppy.”

  Not much had changed in the clearing since Jack had been there three nights before—wellheads at the corners of a triangle about 25 yards on each side; pipes leading from each of the three wellheads to a pump in the center of the triangle. But there was one crucial difference. The fat white ceramic pipe coming down from the plateau was now fully connected to the pump. Montana’s time bomb was set to blow.

  He’d planned to plow the huge truck straight over the pump, the nerve center feeding all three wells. After that, he’d circle around and take out the wellheads. The Trash Taxi would flatten them like Tonka toys.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Gano shouted.

  Jack stared ahead in disbelief, then jammed both feet on the brake pedal and hauled back on the emergency brake lever. Montana had barricaded the big pump with a circle of concrete slabs at least two feet high.

  “Got a backup plan, boyo?” Gano asked.

  Not for this, but he said, “I’ll get that wellhead on the left first. Hold on.” He released the emergency brake, raced the engine and shoved it into gear. Like a locomotive pulling uphill, it rammed into the nearest wellhead which screamed in protest as it was crushed into a tangle of steel beneath the truck’s undercarriage. As the truck surged forward, the wreckage lifted its front wheels off the ground. Jack gunned the engine, trying to rock it forward and back, but it was crippled for good.

  “Grab your bottles,” Gano yelled.

  Ka—BOOM!

  The halo of light from the explosion revealed that their diversions hadn’t worked well enough. Two guards were racing toward the truck. He and Gano had agreed what they’d do if they had to deal with guards. They looked at each other. Now was the time.

  Jack’s door jammed. He rammed it with his shoulder until it opened and he half fell out. He got back up on the metal step and grabbed his two bottles.

  Gano was already out. “Fire up that wellhead over there, Scoutmaster, and the other one if you have time. Do it the way I said. Screw up and it’ll kill you. Now!”

  Jack pulled the cork from the first bottle and smelled gasoline and white phosphorus. He took a strip of cloth that had been wrapped around the neck of the bottle, soaked half of it in the flammable mixture, and re-tied it around the neck of the bottle. He stuffed the cork back in place. The cloth lit immediately from the flame of the lighter Gano had given him. One . . . two . . . three. He looped it in a high arc toward a wellhead where it shattered. Brilliant flames shot into the air, with enough heat to take out gaskets, switches, and a hell of a lot more. He lit the wick and tossed his other bottle in the direction of the second wellhead. It exploded with a blinding flash.

  They hadn’t destroyed the wellheads, but Montana would have to make some heavy repairs.

  Gano’s gasoline bomb sailed above the dirt track and exploded directly in the path of two men who frantically fled back toward the plant. “That’s enough good deeds for tonight,” Gano shouted. “Let’s vamoose!”

  Jack studied their surroundings. They could attempt to get to the river, but there was almost no cover. If they tried to get away up the ridge, guards would come up the other side of the mesa and trap them. That left the escape they’d planned, a run back among the plant buildings to the Mustang, with only the fire and confusion to shield them.

  “Not so good, Smokey,” Gano said somberly, as they looked across the open ground between them and the northern row of buildings.

  Jack had to face facts. They couldn’t make the gate on foot. Time to improvise.

  “See the sign reading ‘Shipping & Receiving’?” Jack pointed to the building. “Montana’s head goon works there, a man he calls The Ape. I’ve seen vehicles parked inside. We can grab one and power out to the gate.” That might also give him a chance to break into Guzman’s office and steal the mystery truck records to prove Palmer Industries’ involvement.

  “Let’s roll on, buddy. You go first,” Gano said. “I’ll hang here and use this last bottle bomb to cover you.” He held up the Molotov cocktail. “As soon as you’re inside, I’ll follow.”

  Jack put his head down and sprinted for the building fifty yards away. He pressed himself against it for a few seconds, then rounded the corner and pushed through the door, leaving it ajar. He ran across the open space and grabbed the door handle next to the Director de Planta sign. Damn! It was locked. He grabbed a three-foot section of pipe leaning against a workbench and raised it over his head to smash the handle.

  “I wouldn’t do that, señor,” said a calm tenor voice coming from the dim space.

  Two men stepped out of the flickering shadows and walked toward him, their unhurried pace radiating cockiness. Jack couldn’t make out their faces, but he didn’t have to. The voice told him Tomás Montana had found him. Even in silhouette, the sloping shoulders and round skull of the other man identified Guzman. The two stopped twenty steps away. Montana’s arms were crossed, and Guzman’s gun was pointed straight at Jack.

  “Jack Strider.” Montana’s tone sounded as if he were identifying a species of bug. “Come here.”

  Why in God’s name was Montana here? He must have guessed Jack was the arsonist, then reasoned that whatever had caused him to sneak into Shipping & Receiving before might bring him back.

  “I’m fine where I am,” Jack replied. Staying away from them was his only chance.

  “Get your ass over here, Strider,” Guzman said, and waved his gun in a hooking motion, “or I’ll kick your balls into refritos.”

  “Drop it or you die.” Gano’s voice came from the darkness to Jack’s right. Guzman’s arm froze, his weapon pointing at the ceiling.

  Crack.

  A slug hit the concrete next to Guzman’s boot and ricocheted into the metal wall. He dropped his gun.

  Gano stepped into the light, his .38 Special snub-nose pointing midway between Guzman and Montana. “Maybe you’d like to pick on me instead, you fat tub of shit.”

  Guzman’s brow furrowed, apparently amazed that anyone would dare challenge him. “I’ll take you apart,” he snarled.

  “Shut up,” Montana barked at Guzman. “My plant wouldn’t be on fire if those fools you sent to Casa Lupo hadn’t screwed up.” He turned to Jack. “You’ve cost me more than you can imagine.” His lips were tight, and his eyes burned. He looked ready to kill.

  Gano stepped closer to Montana. “I know you’re holding, so pull it out slowly with two fingers, set it on the deck and kick it my way. You see this?” He held out the Molotov cocktail. “Get tricky and you’ll be a toasted marshmal
low.”

  Montana took a Beretta from a pocket inside his jacket and dropped it at his feet.

  “So you’re The Ape,” Gano said to Guzman. “You’ve got quite a reputation down in Divisadero. A woman who works at Casa del Amor told me about the bully who likes to punch young girls. Tell me, fatso, you really got a pecker like a baby jalapeño?”

  Jack watched Guzman’s face reveal that he understood exactly what Gano was referring to at the Casa del Amor. Then comprehension was replaced by rage at the reference to his pecker. But Gano’s .38 kept him from doing anything about it.

  Gano moved quickly to Jack’s side and set the bottle next to him. “Take my popgun and watch Mr. Slick, comprende? If he moves, shoot and keep shooting until you put a hole between his eyes.” He turned his attention to Guzman. “Now, ugly Green Giant, I’m going to settle a score for those girls in Divisadero. Bring me what you got.”

  Guzman looked at the gun Jack held and didn’t move.

  “Take him out, Ape,” Montana ordered. “Don’t worry about white bread here. He’s harmless.”

  Guzman’s right hand shot behind his back and whipped out a switchblade. He pressed it with his thumb and a long blade clicked into place. He let out a guttural bellow and charged, slashing side-to-side. Gano sidestepped like a matador and hacked his fist on the back of Guzman’s bald skull. When Guzman turned and charged again, Gano grabbed a bucket and hurled oily waste into his face.

  Guzman clawed at his eyes. “You son-of—”

  “Gano!” Jack shouted, and tossed him the pipe.

  Guzman swung wildly with his knife. Gano stepped in, blocked Guzman’s arm with the pipe, and chopped the rigid side of his hand like a cleaver on the bridge of The Ape’s nose. The snap sounded like green pine in a campfire.

  Guzman wiped gouts of blood from his nose and roared like a wounded beast. He charged again, and the upward thrust of his knife ripped through the left sleeve of Gano’s jacket. Gano jumped back.

  “Try again, fart face.”

  Guzman got control of his rage and transformed back to the cagey street fighter he was. He used the back of one hairy hand to mop blood off his mouth as he advanced cautiously, weaving his blade in sideways figure eights. Suddenly, he lunged. Gano parried with the pipe and followed with a swing to Guzman’s ribs. The “thunk” sounded like a left hook to a tree trunk.

  “Cabrón!” Guzman faked a thrust from the right. Gano countered with the pipe, but that let Guzman dive in close and hurl Gano to the concrete. He crashed hard and lost his grip on the pipe. As he stumbled to his feet, Guzman right-hooked him to the shoulder and knocked him into a tool bench against the wall.

  “Stop screwing around, Ape,” Montana called. “End it.”

  Guzman flicked a look at Montana. “Fuck you,” he grunted.

  Using Guzman’s second of distraction, Gano snatched a long screwdriver from the tool bench. He danced around Guzman, darting in and out, jabbing him again and again with the screwdriver. He was punishing Guzman, not trying to end the fight, making him bawl in pain and rage.

  Jack’s finger tensed on the trigger. Gano was taunting Guzman. That was stupid.

  Guzman changed tactics. After a slash at Gano’s face, he dropped to one knee and punched the tip of his blade into Gano’s thigh.

  “Goddamn,” Gano cried, falling back, looking at blood staining his pant leg. Gripping his leg, he half-turned and bent forward. Guzman charged with his knife raised high. Gano whirled and drove the screwdriver through Guzman’s belly to his backbone.

  “Ugh. Ugh,” Guzman gurgled. His knees buckled, and he fell at Gano’s feet.

  “Payback for my friend Helena in Divisadero, the woman whose face you cut.”

  Jack took a quick look to see how badly Gano was hurt. When he turned back, Montana had his silver Beretta aimed at Gano.

  “Drop it,” Jack ordered.

  “Shoot the fucker,” Gano shouted.

  “Strider doesn’t have the guts,” Montana said scornfully, “so let’s you and I do business. That’s why I didn’t stop you.” He nodded toward Guzman, butt in the air, face on the concrete. “That was a job interview. He failed. You passed.”

  “Big fuckin’ deal. You have nothing I want.”

  “I have a cash cow here.” He waved, taking in all of Palmer Industries. “When these fires go out, I’m back in business. You do what I need done, and I’ll cut you in.”

  “Sure you will, until you change your mind like you did with your subhuman life form here. So fuck off.”

  Montana pursed his lips and frowned. “You’re right. It wouldn’t work out. You’ve got a bad attitude.” He lifted the Beretta slightly.

  “No time to be a pacifist, Jack,” Gano said quietly.

  “He won’t shoot,” Montana said. “What would the gentlemen at the yacht club say?”

  A .38 slug tore into the back of Montana’s hand and shattered its web of small bones. He screamed. The Beretta skidded across the floor. Gano snatched it and slammed its butt into the side of Montana’s head, who fell forward with a groan and lay still as his blood colored the concrete.

  “Damn lucky shot, Bart.” Gano looked at Jack and grinned. “What were you aiming at anyway? Something bigger than his hand, I hope. Hell, I’ll bet you’ve never fired a gun before.”

  “Expert Marksman in the Navy. I never said I didn’t know how.”

  Gano gave him an appreciative smile. “That’s profound. Now give me back my nonviolent .38.” Gano took the revolver. “What do we do with these two? I’m guessing you don’t want to be rational and burn ’em both.”

  Jack looked at Montana hunched over his wounded hand. “We’ll take Montana as a hostage to help get us out of here. Guzman, too, if he can move.”

  “A hostage does no damn good. If we go out that door, we’ll get hosed down by the guards’ AK-47s.”

  The yard outside filled with the wailing sirens of fire trucks arriving.

  Gano smiled triumphantly. “We lucked out, Sure Shot. Our cover just showed up.” Gano walked to where Guzman lay inert, rolled him over with his boot, and peered at his face. “This one will be dead meat in a few minutes.” He pointed at a Ford F-350 pickup with a crew cab and a front bumper like a battering ram. “There’s our chariot. I can hot-wire that baby in ten seconds flat.”

  Jack looked toward the truck. He wanted to run to Guzman’s office and grab the records on the mystery trucks, but that could cost them their lives. “Crank it up, Gano.” He turned to Montana. “You better pray no one tries to use those wells.”

  The Ford’s motor roared to life. Gano ran to where Montana squatted, cradling his pulverized hand. Montana never saw the uppercut coming from Gano that knocked him against the wall. Gano jerked him up, dragged him to the truck, and shoved him headfirst into the back cab. Gano straightened up. “Jack, the day may come when you wish I’d smoked this piece of garbage.”

  Jack climbed into the driver’s seat. “Punch the button on the wall that opens the cargo door, and then mount up fast. I’ll ease out and see what’s going on.”

  Outside was chaotic—flashing lights, sirens, jets of water arching through the air. Guards held their automatic rifles with one finger on the trigger while they watched the frenzied firefighters.

  He pulled slowly out of the building and was picking up speed when a guard stepped from around the corner and waved his rifle at them. “Detenerse!” he shouted. “Detenerse!”

  “Head down,” Jack said. “It’s show time.”

  The guard got off a wild burst before diving to save himself from being run over as Jack floored it.

  From near the gate, a Nissan pickup rolled forward, angling to cut them off. As they closed, Jack swerved and rammed the Ford’s massive bumper into the smaller Nissan, sending it careening into the fence. The big F
ord shuddered, then got moving toward the gate again. A bullet shattered the rear window; others slammed into the tailgate.

  Suddenly, the passenger-side door of the crew cab flew open and Montana tumbled out. Jack had to choose. Leave Montana behind, wounded and venomous, or escape.

  Chapter 41

  July 9

  10:30 p.m.

  DEBRA, ARMS CROSSED and mouth tight, sat across from Jack at the small table in the Buena Vista Motel room. Gano lay on one of the beds, injured leg propped up on a pillow, drinking Jose Cuervo tequila from the bottle.

  Jack told her a version of what had gone down at the Palmer plant in a way he hoped wouldn’t freak her out. But each time Gano interrupted and exaggerated the already outrageous events, making both of them sound like comic book heroes, she frowned, barely holding back her annoyance.

  “So,” Jack said, “a couple of miles from the plant, black smoke poured out from under the hood. When the engine locked up—”

  “Why did that happen?”

  “Hell,” Gano put in, “that ol’ truck was hit by so many bullets it felt like we were in a hailstorm. It’s a wonder—”

  “It didn’t matter,” Jack said. “Gano was right behind me in the Mustang you rented.”

  “Damn it. You weren’t going to tell me you’d been shot at?” She was pissed.

  “No big deal. They hit the truck, not us. Anyway, I drove the Mustang straight to an emergency room in El Paso. The intern didn’t ask any questions and patched up Gano’s leg right away.”

  “And did a good job,” Gano said, “even though he was wasted from smoking weed.”

  “Gano, tell Debra about the time you delivered those three guys who paid for your new plane,” Jack said. He was damn well going to change the subject. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  In the isolation of the shower, the raid on the plant filled his mind. Everything from stealing the Trash Taxi to running from the burning wells now seemed dreamlike. But he remembered every second of Gano’s fight with Guzman. And the moment he pulled the trigger to shoot Montana. Like a lot of violent acts, there had been no time to think. He’d never forget it.