by J J Miller
I turned my eyes to the guest house. Two men were now outside shooting at the drone. Then came the sound of a motor. An ATV appeared beside the men.
“Jesus. There are three of them. They must have been inside the whole time.”
As one shooter keep firing at the drone, the other got on the back of the ATV. The driver wrenched the throttle and came straight for us.
The drone was now above us. Jack stood up and backed away to his truck as he brought it down.
I saw the gunman on the ATV tap the driver’s shoulder. The ATV stopped and the gunman levelled his weapon at us.
“Down, Jack!” I shouted and as I did, the shooter let go five rounds in quick succession. The bullets flew so close I could just about feel the air move.
“Fuck!” Jack shouted through clenched teeth. He hit the ground with his hand clutching his side. “Grab the drone,” he said.
Jack had managed to ground the drone ten yards from the truck.
“You okay?”
“I’m fucking hit.”
“Can you get to the truck?”
“Yeah. Get the drone.”
I crawled as fast as I could and regathered the drone. I could hear the engine of the ATV revving as it climbed the ridge below us. I raced to help Jack into the passenger seat before rounding the front and getting behind the wheel.
“Where are the keys?”
“Shit. Hang on.”
Jack twisted his body to try and extract the keys from his left jeans pocket. It seemed to take forever. Finally, he retrieved them and reached over to me, his hand slick with blood. I slotted the key home, brought the engine to life, then shoved the stick in reverse and hit the gas. The rear wheels churned up a cloud of dust that welled up all around us. Through it, though, I saw the ATV mount the road a hundred yards back. I spun the wheel, put my foot down, and steered the truck onto the road. As I did, I saw the shooter stand and take aim at us.
“Down Jack!”
A burst from the semi-automatic came at us, three bullets hammering into the back of the truck.
I cursed as I saw the road ahead was dead straight for another two hundred yards. Even with the fading light, we were an easy target. The shooter began emptying his magazine at us, spacing his shots as he took more care with his aim. I kept my head as low as I possibly could.
The back window exploded just before we entered a bend. Thankfully a series of bends followed. I raced the truck through, cutting corners and hoping like hell nothing was coming the other way.
“Where’s your gun?” I shouted.
I didn’t need to ask. Jack already had his Smith and Wesson in his bloodied hand. He swiveled around and fired through the now open window, sending five shots their way. Through the rearview mirror, I saw the ATV slow down, both driver and shooter ducking.
Around the next bend the road opened up and I was able to put five hundred yards between us in no time.
“They’re done,” said Jack.
I saw the ATV had stopped.
“Fuck,” Jack said through clenched teeth as he lifted his shirt.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
“Could be worse. It’s just caught the oblique muscle. It hasn’t lodged but it’s taken out a chunk of flesh,” he said grimacing with pain.
“Hang tight,” I said. “I’ll pull over as soon as I can.”
“Just keep driving,” said Jack. “We’ll sort it out at home.”
We both knew going to a hospital was out of the question. Any physician presented with a gunshot wound was required by law to notify the cops.
“You got a first-aid kit in the truck?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then. I’ll find somewhere to pull over and I’ll put a dressing on. Then we’ll get you home.”
“Great,” said Jack, sarcastically. “Chanel’s going to kill me.”
Chapter 22
I pulled off the 101 at Rincon Point, dashed around the back to grab the medical kit and opened Jack’s door. I figured if Rollins’ men had decided to give chase, they’d only be a few minutes behind. Jack swung his legs out slowly, grimacing with pain. The shirt he’d used to stem the blood was soaked through.
“Give me a look,” I said.
Jack took his hand away. It wasn’t pretty but I’ve seen worse. The bullet had grazed his left flank about half an inch in, ripping out a divot of flesh. The bleeding had slowed, and Jack was awake, alert, and breathing almost normally, so I knew he wasn’t suffering a critical loss of blood pressure.
“You’re damned lucky,” I said as I packed dressing against the wound. “Hold this.”
Jack put his hand on the wound while I wrapped a bandage around his waist.
“If that guy’s aim was a fraction right that bullet could have gone through your stomach, not to mention your spine.”
I used two elastic clips to secure the bandage. “It’s going to need a few stitches. You trust me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“That’ll do. Let’s go,” said Jack. He popped the glove compartment open, took out a box of bullets, and began reloading the clip. I was already back behind the wheel when he jammed the full clip back into place.
“They may have got the plate,” Jack said when we were back on the freeway.
“Maybe. It might have been just dark enough. At that distance, my bet is that they wouldn’t have.”
Jack took out his phone and tapped a contact. “Wish me luck,” he said as he put the phone to his ear. It wasn’t every day of the week you rang the wife to tell her you were coming home shot, and that his buddy was going to have to stitch you up in the bathroom. He spoke with Chanel for a couple of minutes before hanging up.
We made it back to Calabasas safely and as I swung his truck into the driveway, Jack aimed the clicker at the garage door, and I pulled in.
Before I could shut the engine off, the side door to the garage opened and Chanel appeared. She rushed up to Jack. He opened the door and Chanel gasped at the blood.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Look at you! How bad is it?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks. Just a big scratch, really. Brad’s going to put some stitches in and it’ll be fine.”
Chanel put her arms around Jack and then released him to look at me.
“Chanel, I’m sorry,” I said. “This is my fault.”
“That, I’d believe,” she said. “What the hell happened?”
There was no point trying to spin Chanel some bullshit story. I told her about the case and that I asked Jack to come and surveil the property.
“So the aim was to get footage of this lab?” she asked.
“I suspected a lab was there and as it turned out I was right. We thought everyone had left when we sent the drone in. We were wrong.”
“Did you get some good footage?”
“Yes, we did,” I said, trying to make out that in some sense it was mission accomplished.
“Footage that you can’t possibly use as evidence because you were trespassing,” said Chanel coldly.
I didn’t expect this line of questioning from her.
“That doesn’t mean it won’t prove vital to the case,” I diverted. “Look we should get Jacked stitched up.”
Chanel looked at me with unrelenting eyes. For all the time I’d known her she had every reason to like me. I was a decent enough, smart enough guy who was a good friend to her husband. That view was being radically revised as we spoke.
Jack and I moved to the main bathroom. Soon after, Chanel appeared with a bottle of bourbon and three glasses.
“Thank God the girls are in bed,” she said, handing me a glass. “You’d better know what you’re doing.”
“I’ve done this before. The wound’s clean, in that there’s not dirt, so getting it sterile won’t be a problem. Then I’ll do a bit of sewing,” I said, holding up the needle and suture thread I’d taken from the first-aid kit. “I think he’ll need eight stitches. That’s it
.”
“I’ll help,” said Chanel. She removed the bandage and dressing and put her hand over her mouth in sympathy. She’d suffered terrible injuries during her career as a ski racer, so she wasn’t one to be squeamish. She cleaned the wound and dabbed it as dry as she could, then held the skin together as I inserted six stitches.
After ten minutes the job was done, the sealed wound about two inches long.
Chanel handed me my drink.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Brad, let me be clear. If you ever take my husband along with you on a job that has even the faintest chance of him getting killed, I’m going to kill you. Do you understand?”
I nodded. “Yes, of course, Chanel. I apologize.”
With that, Chanel drained her glass and went to check on the girls.
“She’s right, Jack,” I said. “I can’t keep asking you to do this kind of shit. You’re a father.”
“What are you talking about? So are you, you moron.”
“I know, but it’s different.”
It wasn’t quite the same for both of us. Jack could and should stay clear of this case for the sake of his family. I couldn’t. I’d never back out and leave Chip’s fate to some other lawyer. If I didn’t stick with it, an innocent man would be sent to jail for the rest of his life. An innocent man with two young daughters, just like Jack.
I’d always needed to have faith in this case, and now I believed with all my heart that my client was innocent. There was something dark and dirty about HardShell and it wasn’t Chip Bowman. The trial would be upon us in a few months, and I intended to see it through to the end.
But if Rollins found out it was me who spied on his clan lab, there was every chance I wouldn’t live to deliver my opening statement.
“I’m going home,” I said, patting Jack on the shoulder. “Thanks for your help. Send me the bill for your truck.”
Chapter 23
I took a laptop with me to Men’s Central Jail the next morning to show Chip the drone video. I opened the computer in front of Chip and brought up the file. I played the clip and hit the space bar to pause when the first man appeared.
“Do you recognize him?”
“Yes,” said Chip. “That’s Kenny Sutherland. He’s worked for Quinn for years.”
“He works for HardShell?”
Chip nodded.
I grabbed a pen from my inside jacket pocket, pulled out my notebook and wrote the name down. We continued on until all ten men had been identified. All of them were vets, all former private military contractors.
Chip pointed to the bag that one of the men was carrying. “What’s in the bag?”
“I don’t know. But I think it’s meth.”
Chip’s face dropped. “Are you serious?”
“Couldn’t be more so.” I showed Chip the rest of the video, including the clan lab.
“I can’t believe it,” said Chip, flopping back in his chair. “I mean, I knew Quinn didn’t mind pushing the boundaries, but I never thought he’d go that far.”
I closed the laptop and sat down again at the other side of the table.
“Chip, I’m putting the pieces together here because the cops won’t. All they’re focused on is you. I’m convinced there was meth on that run you did.” I didn’t want to tell Chip that Ace had practically confirmed that there was. “And if that’s the case, it was somehow loaded while you weren’t there or you weren’t looking.”
“But I saw what we were carrying. There was nothing but legal cash and weed in that van. I’d checked it all on the manifest.”
“Maybe it was hidden in the van somewhere.”
Chip was lost in thought. “I can’t for the life of me figure out where.”
“Did you ever say anything that might have worried Quinn enough to get rid of you?”
Chip folded his arms and gave it some thought. “Well, I made it pretty clear to the other guys that I wanted nothing to do with any illegal carries.”
I shook my head. “I can’t imagine that would put a target on your back. Was there anything else you said?”
Chip thought some more. After a few moments, a recollection came to him. “The only thing I can remember was… Look, I mean it was nothing. It was silly. I was drunk and just having a joke.”
“What did you say?”
“I told Nate and Bo that there was no way I was going to put my family’s future at risk by getting into anything shady. To be honest, I was joking and I wasn’t. I really wanted nothing to do with anything like that. I wanted to do my job and do it well and get rewarded well for it.”
“What was the joke?”
“I said something like I might end up like the guy from Goodfellas, you know the Ray Liotta character? I said I might have to expose the whole deal to the feds and go into witness protection. It was stupid thing to say, but I can say some dumb stuff when I’ve had a few beers.”
I can only imagine how such a remark would have gone down.
“I think we may have found our trigger. Would Nate and Bo have told Rollins what you said?”
Chip shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. But if they thought I was a threat, why didn’t they just kill me?”
“Maybe because you are more valuable to them alive. Look at you. Sitting here in jail. Maybe this is exactly what they wanted. They wanted you to take the fall for their crime. You have no answers. You have no explanations. You can’t talk your way out. And you can’t betray your supposed co-conspirators. You get sent to jail. Case closed. And they get back to business as usual.”
“But why are Nate and Bo dead?”
I shook my head. “That I don’t know.”
Chapter 24
It’s been said that it’s not the evidence that counts in a trial but how you use it. Often, but not always, whoever tells the most compelling story with the given evidence wins. From the outset, I knew Dale Winter had the jump on me in that regard. He’d have no problem cast Chip as a desperate schemer who thought he’d gotten away with the perfect crime.
Winter sent me an updated list of his witnesses, and I was not surprised to see Quinn Rollins’ name included. To counter the barrage Winter had planned, I had to focus on deflection and discredit strategies: lead suspicion away from Chip and undermine the credibility of Winter’s witnesses. I had to somehow find a way to turn what I knew about Rollins against him.
“Mr. Madison,” said Megan after buzzing me. “Mr. Scott Slovak is here to see you.”
This was not a scheduled visit but it was welcome. I pressed the button. “Thanks Megan. Please send him in.”
The door opened and Megan ushered Scooter Slovak into my office. He declined her offer of coffee or water and took a seat in front of my desk. His demeanor was very different to the upbeat vigor I saw at the HardShell compound. He looked nervous, lacking in confidence, and uncomfortable. I wasn’t surprised. I’d left him a message immediately after visiting Chip at MCJ but I didn’t hear from him for several days. When he did finally call, I told him Chip needed all the help he could get. He needed more than a friend. He needed someone to stand up for him. I asked Slovak if he’d come in to discuss the prospect of him testifying. He said he’d think about it. I hoped that him coming to see me meant he’d decided to help, but I was prepared to be disappointed.
I had to ease into the proposition gently. The last thing I wanted to do was to scare him off. If my powers of persuasion failed, the strength of my case could be halved. I would be at Winter’s mercy.
“How are you today, Scooter?”
“I’m good, Mr. Madison. It’s all getting a bit crazy.”
“I understand. It’s often the way with cases like this. There are so many unanswered questions, so many allegations and theories. Then there are the lies and misinformation. It’s hard to know what’s what.”
“Tell me about it.”
Something told me we were not exactly on the same level.
“Scooter, you look bothered. Is there something I shou
ld know?”
He was reluctant to speak. After a few moments, he finally found his voice. “Things are getting way out of control, sir. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Make of what?”
“HardShell. There’s some crazy stuff going on. Crazy stories flying around.”
“What stories? Stories about Chip?”
Scooter shook his head. “No, nothing about him, but it could be connected. Who knows?”
“Scooter, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Slovak was wringing his hands and rocking slightly in his chair.
“There was an incident up at Quinn’s farm.”
A chill ran through my veins. It took a lot for me to act calm and oblivious.
“His farm?”
“Up near Santa Barbara. He bought a coffee estate up near Santa Barbara. It just got raided by the DEA.”
My jaw just about hit the desk. “What?”
Scooter looked at me like he was just as surprised as I was. “Yeah, I know.”
“Hang on, Scooter back up. You need to unpack this for me. Piece by piece.”
“Yes, of course. Well, you know he’s got the farm up there?”
“I do now.”
“Recently, the teams have been using it as a stop-off point to break up the LA-Humboldt run. Quinn even put in a couple of vaults there. And apparently last week these two guys sent a drone in to spy on the place.”
“Who would want to spy on Quinn’s farm?”
“No one knows for sure. There’s a lot of speculation but Quinn’s in a state. Even more so than before. He’s freaking out. But those guys could have been DEA. Or they could have been Bravo guys. No one knows for sure. But two days later, the DEA turned up and raid the place.”
“Did they find anything?”
“No. Nothing. Quinn’s tried to get them to tell him who called them in on him but they refused to say.”
My blood pressure eased a little.
“And Quinn thinks David McClean sent his guys to spy on him?”
“Yes.”
“And then they gave the DEA a tip-off?”
“That’s what everyone thinks. It’s a cut-throat business manned by some pretty intense dudes. Quinn and McClean both kind of have their own private armies. And they want to take each other down.”
