by Jack Slater
He pulled the rest of his wad from his pocket. “I’ve only got two on me.”
“That’s fine, ese,” Estevan said, his eyes lighting up as he saw the money. “For now… But you better make sure you got the rest when I come calling.”
Trapp recalled the damage that a single blow from Señor Big’s right fist had inflicted on him and decided there was absolutely no chance of him coming up short. He nodded. “How long will it take?”
“A day. Maybe two, for the semi. You need any ammo?”
“For the long guns, maybe. I’ll pick up the 9 mm stuff myself.”
“You got it,” Estevan replied, offering up a toothy grin. “I like to offer my clients a full-spectrum kind of service. A hundred percent satisfaction, guaranteed.”
Trapp wondered – silently – how exactly one would go about filing a complaint with the gangbanger, and whether the processing of that complaint would involve a bullet blasting through the back of his skull.
“And I’ll need your digits,” Estevan said. “We won’t meet here. Not twice.”
Trapp handed over his number, then turned to leave, offering up a parting, half-hearted smile. "Nice doing business with you.”
“One last thing,” the banger said. “These toys you ordering. You want ‘em used, or clean?”
It took Trapp’s brain a couple of seconds’ processing time to work out what Estevan meant. Clean meant exactly what it usually did: that the guns were new. Fresh out of the box. He suspected that used, on the other hand, didn’t just mean that the weapons had been tried out at the range, but that they’d been used in the perpetration of a crime. And not just brandished in a mugging, either, but fired.
Which meant the cops would have their barrel markings on file.
It meant added risk: if the police apprehended him with one of these weapons in his possession, that could easily make him the prime suspect in a cold case. Knowing the guys he was purchasing from, that case was as likely to be a homicide as not.
But the flip side of risk was reward. Odysseus had the money, the connections and the manpower that he did not. Playing by the rules was the same as fighting with one hand behind his back. To succeed, he needed both to keep them off balance – and off his tail. If this helped, then so much the better.
“Used,” he replied softly. “The dirtier the better.”
“Then, my friend”—Estevan grinned broadly—“you have yourself a deal. I’ll be in touch.”
Trapp didn’t smile back. He didn’t much enjoy doing business with individuals like this gangster. But if this wasn’t quite a case of acting in the greater good, then it was at least a lesser evil. “One last thing.”
“I’m listening.”
He pointed at the crates in the corner. “How much for some of those?”
28
Trapp spent the next day burning more of his precious cash. He spent a couple of hundred dollars on pistol ammunition across three different gun shops, entering each with a baseball cap on. Not pulled down low over his eyes, which would have looked altogether too suspicious, but sufficient to hide his identity if the cops later pulled surveillance tapes.
At the second store, he spent $300 on a low light scope – not nightvision goggles like he’d used in the Army, but good enough to use in an urban environment with plenty of ambient light sources.
He hit up an Army surplus store and kitted himself out with several sets of dark clothing, camouflage face paint, and other miscellanies he figured he might require. After that, he placed an order at a printshop, and while the signage was going through the presses, he hit up a uniform supply store.
By the time he was ready to pick up the signs, the trunk of his Corolla was packed out, and he had to place them – face down – onto the back seats.
The last order of business was the acquisition of half a dozen burner cell phones, complete with prepaid SIM cards, all loaded with a hundred bucks’ worth of credit. Probably far in excess of what they would be needed for, but better safe than sorry. He spread the purchases out across three different RadioShacks. The last thing he needed right now was to get on some federal watch list, not with what he had planned.
The final store was more old-fashioned than the two which had preceded it, a haven for electronics enthusiasts and computer nerds alike. The pimple-faced 18-year-old behind the cashier’s counter was wearing a black baseball cap with red accents and didn’t look up as Trapp entered. The blast of air conditioning as he walked through the glass doors was colored by a faint hint of cannabis smoke.
As he walked toward the checkout, he passed by a display of parts for RC fans, everything from trains and planes to automobiles. At first, he didn’t pay the racks of equipment any mind.
Until a thought struck him.
Several minutes later, he approached the counter with an arm full of wires, batteries, switches, and radio controllers. Enough kit to pull off a one-man remote-control air show.
“Hey, buddy,” Trapp said as he peeled several notes out of his wallet. “You sell envelopes?”
Still the cashier didn’t look up. The kid placed his index finger on his lip, stumped, and replied, “Envelopes?”
“Yeah.” Trapp frowned, sketching a rectangle with his fingers. “You know, about yay big. You send them through the post office.”
This bought him a rare, red-eyed glance from the teenager, which explained a lot. Another pause. “Oh, right. Um, I guess so. Only padded ones, I think.”
“That’s fine,” Trapp replied, plucking a pen from a display by the register and placing it by his pile of purchases. “I only need one.”
The call from Estevan came five minutes later as Trapp was sitting in his car with a thick, full envelope on his lap, and an iron anvil in his gut. The second was very much related to the first, since the parcel was addressed to Ron Grayson.
The gang banger’s familiar, probing tone somehow came as a welcome surprise. “Hey, boy scout,” the gang member crooned. “You ready for your delivery?”
Trapp pressed the small black cell phone hard enough against his temple for his skin to whiten. “That depends. You got what I asked for?”
“Any reason I wouldn’t?” Estevan replied, his voice cold with coiled aggression.
“I don’t know you,” Trapp said calmly. “But you seem like a… reasonable guy. So no. I guess not.”
“That’s right,” Estevan hissed, as Trapp’s cell phone vibrated. “You get that, boy scout?”
He glanced at the screen of the phone and saw an address he didn’t recognize, in the same general area as Cherry Street, before pressing the cell phone back to his ear. “I did.”
“The front door is open. Doesn’t lock. Your gear is on the left.”
“I’m meeting you there?” Trapp queried.
“Did I say I was finished?”
Trapp let loose a deep breath of frustration but did so softly enough that it wasn’t obvious. “Go on.”
“Can you be there in an hour?” Estevan asked, his previous aggression seemingly forgotten.
“I can,” Trapp agreed, quickly glancing at the clock on the dashboard.
“Bring the cash. Stand in front of the door, turn around, and count it out. Make sure you don’t stiff me none, okay?”
“Okay. Then what?”
“You want a fucking valet service, bro? Just leave the cash on the doorstep, take your stuff, and disappear. After that I don’t want to see you no more, understood?”
“Understood,” Trapp agreed gladly. That fit well with his plans. “That it?”
“There’s one last thing.”
Trapp gritted his teeth. “What’s that?”
The gang banger started to laugh. “I’m a responsible dealer, you understand? So I got a few terms and conditions.”
“Oh?”
“State of California doesn’t like people letting these bangers off. Wildfires and shit. So I need you to pinky swear you’ll drive them out to Nevada or some shit before you light ‘em up.�
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Trapp shook his head and couldn’t help a smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Sure. You got it.”
29
Several hours later, Trapp dressed all in black, then filled the backpack with the drill and screws, along with a can of spray paint that he’d purchased earlier that day. He threw the backpack, along with a fluorescent orange workmen’s vest from the uniform supply store, onto the back seat of the Corolla and climbed into the front.
The engine coughed before it caught, and Trapp’s knuckles whitened against the steering wheel at the brief moment of panic. It wasn’t necessary – Odysseus would wait for vengeance, but he couldn’t. He breathed a sigh of relief as it rumbled into life, then reminded himself to cool it. This wasn’t a war zone, and no one yet knew what he was planning. As long as he moved slowly and smoothly, everything would be okay.
“And if you get jumpy, you’ll only have yourself to blame,” he grumbled.
He felt naked without a weapon, and briefly considered equipping himself with one. As unsavory a character as he was, Estevan had proved as good as his word. Enough guns and rockets to prosecute a small war were now stored in the basement of the safe house.
Well, Trapp thought, that’s the general idea.
But tonight’s tasks didn’t call for any weapon sharper than his wits. Which, Ryan Price would no doubt have informed him if his friend was here, wasn’t as comforting a fact as it might have been.
He flicked the car’s headlights on as he left the property and covered the distance between his house and Chino’s in 20 minutes. There was little of Southern California’s lethal traffic that night, a fact for which he was deeply thankful.
He parked a block from Chino’s, leaving the supplies in the back, then locked the car and walked the rest of the way. When he reached Chino’s street, instead of turning right, he headed left, to the abandoned construction site opposite.
Trapp circled the entire site on foot at first, his eyes endlessly darting left and right in search of security cameras that he might have earlier missed or a curtain twitching to indicate the presence of a nosy neighbor. Occasionally, a car passed by, but the neighborhood was mostly residential and skewed older. He guessed that most of the residents were either glued to television sets or already in bed.
When he was certain that he was alone, he returned to the parked car. He donned the fluorescent vest and slung the backpack over it, wishing as he did so that he had thought to purchase a hard hat to complete the look.
Still, if anyone asked what he was doing, Trapp figured the combination of the vest and a quick tongue should do the trick. Like a clipboard, there’s something about a work uniform that convinces most people that pretty much any activity is legitimate. Even past midnight.
At least, he hoped so.
Trapp slung the signs underneath his right arm, locked the Corolla, and walked the block back to the construction site at double pace. Not fast enough to attract any real suspicion, but when he realized, he forced himself to slow down regardless.
“Slow is smooth, smooth is fast,” he muttered under his breath.
The construction site was surrounded by wooden fencing that rose 10 feet into the air. The hulk of the abandoned apartment building was just barely visible over it, but the closer he got, the less Trapp could see. Of the four sites, three were open to the street, and the fourth backed onto another lot. He ignored that one.
As he reached the side of the fence that faced Chino’s unit, Trapp laid all six of the printed plastic signs against the fence. Though he was desperate to look over his shoulder and check whether he was being watched, he resisted the temptation.
Just act cool.
He swung the backpack over his shoulder and unzipped it at his feet, removing the drill – which went between his knees – and several screws, which he arrayed between his lips like a rapper’s grille. Next, he grabbed one of the signs, lifted it a little above the height of his torso, and held it in place with his left hand as the right groped first for a couple of screws, then the drill.
Naturally, the entire creaking edifice didn’t take long to topple. In a hasty attempt to grab the sign that was now sliding down the fence, Trapp dropped the drill entirely, and it thudded to the sidewalk with a sickening crack.
Yeah, you really didn’t think this through.
Slowly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world – even though his insides were screaming at him – Trapp cast a casual glance around the street, checking if he had drawn any unwanted attention.
Thankfully, it didn’t seem so. Yet, anyway. And apart from a hairline crack in the drill’s casing, it seemed otherwise functional as he gave it a quick whirl.
“Take two,” he mumbled through a mouth of metal.
This time, he wedged the sign against the fence with his left shoulder and drilled the bottom right screw hole first. The drill’s motor let out a banshee-like squeal as it chewed through the wood, spitting out a thin stream of sawdust particles as it dug in. They dusted the sidewalk near his feet, and when the screw was all the way in, he quickly swept his boots left and right to clear them away.
Didn’t think about that either, did you?
Failure to plan ahead for the possibility of leaving a trail of wood crumbs behind wasn’t exactly a chastening experience, but it was a good reminder that although the U.S. Army had spent six years training – and then sending – him to fight, it definitely had not prepared him to moonlight as a low-budget secret agent. If he was going to come anywhere close to achieving his goals, he needed to act smarter.
Trapp fixed four of the signs on the side of the fence that faced Chino’s apartment, and only one on each of the two that didn’t. When he was done, he double checked that he hadn’t left any visible dust behind or dropped any screws that could warn an extremely eagle-eyed observer that the job was a new one, and stood back to admire his work.
The big white signs read, in stark stenciled black ink: THIS PROPERTY IS PROTECTED BY ITHACA NIGHT WATCHMAN, LLC. DO NOT ENTER.
There was, of course, no such company as Ithaca Night Watchman, LLC or otherwise. At least, if there was, Trapp had certainly never heard of them. Still, even if two of the signs were noticeably wonky, he doubted that it would give anyone cause to worry.
He replaced the drill and three unused screws into the backpack and thrust the orange vest inside after them. The can of spray paint was the only thing that made the return journey, and once the backpack was closed, he held it tightly in his right hand.
Trapp slung the bag over his left shoulder but didn’t bother with both straps. He walked leisurely around the block, lingering over every step, so that by the time he had doubled back on himself, he hoped that any unseen watcher would have given up.
“Let’s go, Picasso,” he mumbled, pulling the plastic cap off the aerosol can and lifting it to about chest height. The fence that surrounded the abandoned site was already covered with graffiti, and the signs that he had attached to it a few moments before stood out like a prom queen in a drunk tank.
But not for long.
Though art was not something that Trapp had ever tried his hand at, he decided that if the artistic merit of most of the other works that lined the wall was anything to go by, he wasn’t too far out of his depth.
Working in long, measured strokes, he sprayed nonsensical letters over the corners of each of the signs in turn. In theory, this served two goals: first, by getting there first, he hoped to dissuade future graffiti artists from covering the signs entirely, and second, they no longer looked as obviously new as they had a few moments before.
That was the easy part.
And the quiet one.
Returning to the car, he quietly stowed the drill and the backpack in the trunk and retrieved a handful of red cylinders, all wired up with string. He shut the trunk, then reached into the pocket of his jeans.
“Hope you’re not asleep, buddy,” he whispered.
Trapp flicked the lighter’s flint, b
riefly causing a shower of sparks to glint in the darkness before the wick sparked into life, revealing the string of firecrackers in his other hand. He paused briefly before lighting them, knowing that awake or asleep, the sound might easily awaken demons in Chino’s mind.
And then he lit them.
He didn’t wait for them to start cracking before tossing them into a nearby garbage can and driving away, without lights at first to avoid attracting attention. But even with 50 yards of distance behind him, when the firecrackers started blasting, he knew about it.
It was impossible not to.
Trapp had no idea where the Latinos had bought these things, though the Chinese script on the crates was a good guide, or how much they’d paid. But he knew one thing: they were loud. Loud, and definitely not compliant with California code.
As he drove in the opposite direction, he watched the flashes in his rearview mirror and the crack of what sounded like heavy-caliber gunfire behind him.
Before he turned around the corner and was out of sight, he saw lights flicker on in several of the houses near to Chino’s place. He winced, knowing that there would be a few bleary-eyed employees at work the next day.
The second – and final – stop on the night’s agenda was 20 minutes across town, though Trapp added another 30 to the journey time by doubling back on himself half a dozen times through intersections and quiet residential streets in order to check whether he was being followed. Even before starting, he was certain that he wasn’t. There was no conceivable way that Odysseus could know where he was. He was off the grid, paying cash for every service, even the house he was living in.
Still, it paid to be cautious. No one ever thought they were being followed. Until they discovered they were, so the practice seemed worthwhile.
The stenciled sign for the impound lot was just barely visible from the glow thrown by the streetlights. The bulb in the one closest to the shack at the front was out, as were half a dozen other lamps within sight, which indicated to Trapp that this was not a part of the city which attracted much municipal attention.
