Allegiance Burned: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 6

  My revolver, freshly loaded with shot shell, is tucked into the small of my back. Mack is carrying a Beretta M9. Between the two of us we’ve got twenty-one shots, even though Mack doesn’t know I’m armed.

  The club sodas on the table between us are sweating, the ice cubes long melted. I’ve only taken a couple of sips of mine when Bella strides in through the doors.

  She surveys the place, ignoring us to her right, and then walks left to the bar. She pulls herself onto a stool and sits. The bartender, the one in the surveillance video, descends on her quickly and takes her order. She pretends not to see him make a phone call from the opposite end of the long wood laminate bar at an old mechanical cash register.

  “He’s calling them,” Mack says. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  My eyes are on the barkeep. “How do you know?”

  “Most of the action is here. There’s not much to Lead. Custer’s pretty quiet at night. So I’m guessing here, but I bet they’re close by.”

  The bartender pulls a tap and fills a glass mug with an amber colored beer. He wipes the head with a coaster and then walks the drink back to Bella. She puts some cash on the counter and he takes it, thanks her, and then walks back to put the money in the register.

  There are seven other people in the bar. Two women and five men. The women are with two of the men at a table near the bar. They’ve been drinking a lot. Two other men are at a table between us and the front door. They’re in an intense conversation, shoveling their way through nachos and downing bottled beer. The fifth man is at a booth in the far corner of the bar, watching cable news on the television hanging high on the back wall. His back is to me.

  I doubt any of them are threats.

  Underneath the television are twin doors. One is the men’s room, the other the ladies’. It doesn’t appear as though there are any exits other than the front door.

  One way in and out.

  Behind the bar, hanging on the mirrored wall between the house and call brands is an autographed baseball bat. I can’t tell who signed it, but that bat could be an issue. My guess is that the bartender has something underneath the bar as well. A shotgun maybe. He’s a big dude too; six feet tall, maybe two hundred fifty pounds.

  He could be a problem.

  “They’re here,” Mack says under his breath. “My three, your nine o’clock.”

  Both men are wearing the same Dockers pants from the video stills, but this time they’re wearing jackets. Even though they’re light windbreakers, it’s still too hot to be wearing anything more than a short-sleeved shirt.

  “Time to go.” Mack gets up from his seat. He walks toward the bar and then exits through the batwing doors, swinging them as he leaves the bar. He’ll be waiting outside, making sure nobody leaves the bar with Bella.

  I shift the revolver into the front of my waistband, get up, and walk to the bar to find a stool between Bella and the door. Both men have chosen a table right behind her. One of them, with salt and pepper hair, raises his arm to get the bartender’s attention. He’s the senior of the two operatives.

  I glance over at Bella. She takes a sip of the beer she’s been nursing and wipes the condensation off of the bar with a napkin. She’s fidgeting.

  I glance into the mirror behind the bar and see the bartender at the table talking to the men. One of them motions toward Bella and the barkeep nods. Neither of them order anything that I can tell. They’re biding their time.

  The two couples sitting at the table next to them get up to leave. One of the men hands the bartender some cash and the group noisily walks out of the bar. That leaves the nacho guys at the table near the door and the television watcher in the rear booth.

  The bartender takes the cash to the register, which he pops open and shut, and makes his way toward Bella.

  “Do you need another beer?” he asks with a sheepish grin. He glances past Bella to the men at the table behind her and then back at her.

  “No thanks,” she says. “I’m fine.”

  “How about you bud?” he points at me. “You need something?”

  “I’ll have another club soda please. More ice this time.”

  “You betcha’.” He pulls a glass from under the bar. “It’s hot as blue blazes here. Can’t get the A/C cranking hard enough.” He shovels some ice into the glass and then sprays it full of soda water. “I swear it feels like Africa in here,” he laughs and slides the drink to me. As he gets closer I can see the beads of sweat at his temples and on his lip. It’s not the heat that has him sweating.

  “It is pretty warm,” I say. I raise the glass, thanking him, and take a gulp. Then I get up from the bar and walk back to my table. I have a better vantage point from the booth and am less visible to the two men casing Bella.

  When I reach my seat and slide in, the nacho dudes get up and leave. The batwing doors are still swinging when one of the jacketed thugs approaches Bella at the bar, the one with the salt and pepper hair, and sidles up to the stool on her left. I can’t hear what he saying to her, but the bartender has slipped to the far side of the bar, pretending to be occupied with receipts.

  Something’s about to go down. My right hand slides onto the handle of my revolver and pulls it from my waistband.

  Bella says something to Salt and Pepper, her attention on him. He glances past her shoulder as she’s talking and looks at his blond-haired partner, who stands, pulls something from inside his jacket and steps quickly to Bella, then turns to face me. They don’t want to talk.

  Time to improvise.

  In one motion, I’m up from my seat and pulling the trigger twice at Blondie before he has his hand out of his jacket. The loud cracks of the revolver are followed instantly by the man’s scream as he falls over a chair and on the floor. His knees are blown and he’s out of play.

  I swing the gun to the man at the bar and then back to the man on the ground, trying to cover both of them. The one at the bar is too fast, he grabs Bella by the hair and pulls her onto his lap, swiveling to face me. He has a gun jammed into the right side of her neck.

  “Hey!” the bartender yells. “You didn’t say anything about guns. You didn’t say there’d be guns!”

  “Shut up!” yells Salt and Pepper. “You!” He nods at me, not letting go of Bella’s hair. “Drop the gun. You aren’t gonna win this.”

  The pistol is leveled at his head. I don’t know if I can get the shot off without risking Bella, and with shell shot in the chamber, chances are she’d be hit. I should have brought the Tec-9. It’s in my pack in the trunk of the Suburban.

  “I can’t do that,” I tell him. “You know if I drop this gun, you kill me and then you kill her.”

  “I don’t want to kill her,” he tightens his grip on Bella’s head. “She’s got information I need.”

  “Why the gun to her head?”

  There’s a flash of indecision in his eyes. A millisecond of self-doubt. We’re in a Mexican standoff and he knows it. I’m not lowering my gun; he’s not letting go of Bella; his partner is rolling around on the floor. I take a step toward him.

  “This is how it’s going to go,” I tell him. “You’re going to let go of her hair, you’re going to lower that gun. And we’re going to talk about this.”

  “Not happening,” he says and, while still gripping Bella with his left hand, swings the barrel of his semiautomatic toward me.

  Before he can pull the trigger, the bartender tries to grab the baseball bat from the wall. He’s too slow.

  Salt and Pepper spins and fires at the barkeep, hitting him in the shoulder and shattering the mirrored wall behind the bar. I dive to the floor and slide next to Blondie, who’s passed out from the pain, and try to grab his weapon from inside his jacket. I’m too slow.

  By the time I grab the weapon and turn on my back to aim it Salt and Pepper, he’s gone. With Bella. Just like that. I scramble to my feet and, armed with Blondie’s 9mm, stumble through the swinging doors in time to see a Chevy Suburban squealing past me an
d into the darkness. Bella’s gone.

  Mack set us up.

  ***

  The bartender is lying on the floor amidst the broken glass behind the bar. The customer watching television in the back booth is on the phone near the register, presumably calling the police.

  I grab a rag from the bottom liquor shelf, kneel down, and press it against the bartender’s bleeding left shoulder. He’s breathing heavily, as though he’s trying to whistle. His eyes are squeezed shut.

  “Keep this here and press hard,” I instruct. “This will slow the bleeding until the ambulance gets here.” He nods and keeps breathing in and out through pursed lips.

  “What the hell happened?” The television watcher is off the phone and stepping towards us. “Who were those guys?”

  “I don’t know.” I stand up and peek over the bar at Blondie, still unconscious on the floor under a table. “But I’m gonna find out.” I hop up on the bar and swing my legs over, then jump down. “You called the cops?” I turn back to look at the customer, whose eyes are like saucers. He’s pale and shaking a little bit. He nods, slack jawed.

  I kneel down next to Blondie. He’s lying on his side, blood soaking through his Dockers at his knees and shins. I was at close enough range that the shot shell struck a pretty narrow pattern. He might not walk for a while.

  I start digging through his jacket pockets, first the left and then the right. I need transportation.

  Bingo!

  I pull out a cell phone and a set of keys looped to a remote and a rectangular Lucite tag, the kind of keychain rental car companies use. I flip the tag over to read the faded writing on the paper slip inside the tag; Make/Model: Ford Fusion Energi SE. Color: Silver

  I put the keys and the phone next to me on the floor and shift closer to Blondie’s head. His hair is matted with sweat, his lips are blue. He’s in shock. I should elevate his legs, but I don’t want to mess with the mangled knees. There’s nothing I can do really. But I need information from him before I bolt. So I slap him.

  “Dude!” I slap him again and his eyes flutter open. “Who hired you?”

  He mumbles something and then winces in pain. I grab both side of his face and lean down to look him in the eyes.

  “Focus!” I speak slowly. “You were shot in the knees. You’ll be fine. An ambulance is on the way.”

  He groans and his eyes close again. He must be losing more blood than I thought. Maybe a fragment hit an artery. He’s turning gray.

  “Who hired you?” I apply light pressure to the sides of his face.

  Tears leak from his eyes but he doesn’t say anything. There’s the faint sound of a siren. I’ve gotta go.

  “Hey,” I call over to the customer. “Bring this guy some water or something. Keep him awake.”

  “Why should I help him?” the guy yells back at me. “He tried to kill us.”

  “He tried to kill me,” I shoot back. “Not you. Now get over here. I need to go.”

  “Fine,” he raises his hands in surrender. “I’ll help him.”

  “What about me?” cries the barkeep from behind the bar. “What about me? I’m bleeding to death.”

  “Keep pressure on the shoulder,” I call back. “You’ll be fine.”

  I grab the keys and the phone and push my way through the batwing doors. The sirens are getting louder. The ambulance, and the police, will be here any second.

  To the left, across the street, is a parking lot. There are a half dozen cars in it. Walking towards the lot, I hold out the car remote and press the unlock key. The lights flash on a silver sedan. I adjust the revolver in my waistband and jog across the street toward the car.

  I’ve got to find Bella.

  The car is parked facing the street. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I can see the first police car pull up to curb outside the bar. It’s a black and white Dodge Durango, and the officer jumps out of the SUV with his gun drawn. Less than a minute later two more cops pull up, followed by an ambulance. Though it’s hard not to watch the action across the street, I’ve work to do.

  I unlock my phone and slide my finger to the Tile application. The app opens and I enter my name and password. The screen changes to a list: LAPTOP, BLUE BOX, GO BAG.

  I press GO BAG and the screen slides to show me a photograph of my rucksack. I press the screen again to reveal a map. It takes a couple of seconds, but then a pin pops up on the map with the location of my rucksack. The back of the rented Chevy Suburban. Bella is in the Suburban with her iPhone. She’s got the Tile app. Her phone should help me locate my bag. As long as they stay within one hundred and fifty feet of each other, I’ll be able to find her.

  The locator pin is static. So I’ll have to keep refreshing the map as the Suburban moves. I do at least know they’re headed south on US-85. The pin is right next to the Whistler Gulch campground.

  I hit the ignition button and the car hums to life. It’s a hybrid, I guess, so it’s super quiet rolling past the wailing emergency vehicles outside of the bar. Driving past, I can see paramedics on the barroom floor tending to Blondie. He’ll be fine. He’ll have a limp, but he’ll survive.

  In less than a mile, I’m on Cliff Street, which turns into US-85, and I hit refresh on the Tile app. The pin is further south, about two miles ahead of me on the highway. I pick up speed, passing the campground. It’s dark outside now, the clock in the Fusion telling me it’s 8:36PM. I’ve been up exactly sixteen hours and I’m running on adrenaline. My eyes burn, my stomach’s upset, and I need a shower I’m unlikely to get.

  The Tile app tells me the Suburban, or at least my bag, is getting closer. It’s only a mile away. There’s no landmark indicator on the map, but a couple of quick taps on the refresh button tell me they’ve stopped moving. They’re parked somewhere.

  Less than a minute later, I find exactly where they are, why they wanted Bella, and where they’re taking her.

  Homestake Mine.

  ***

  After figuring out how to turn off the headlights and the running lights, which is no easy task on the Fusion, I slow roll into the parking lot outside of what looks like a complex of buildings with a grain silo at one end. I’m thankful for Blondie’s eco-consciousness. The Fusion is almost silent against the freshly paved asphalt. I roll down the driver’s side window and smell the tar.

  Ahead of me are three or four vehicles, clustered together, at the end of the parking lot closest to the silo. The lot is dark, except for a couple of spotlights shining off of the sides of one of the buildings. I press the brake, put the car in park, and turn it off. I’m protected by the dark and there’s no need to call attention to myself.

  I check the Tile app again. The pin is gone. They must have moved her from the Suburban. But I’m close enough now that, once I spot the SUV and get within a couple of hundred feet, I’ll find the bag and the Tec-9 stashed inside of it.

  Climbing out of the car, I crouch low to the asphalt, looking for the Suburban. It’s not with the other vehicles parked in the yellow glow of the flood lights. Burning from sleep deprivation, my eyes have trouble adjusting to the dark as they scan the less visible parts of the lot.

  With my phone in one hand and the Governor in the other, I move along the lot looking for the SUV. I’m closing in on the cluster of cars and trucks near the silo when the pin appears on the Tile app map. It’s to my left, and as I slowly, quietly move that direction, a ping.

  My bag!

  The SUV is parked by itself in what might be the darkest part of the lot. I would have missed it, if not for the app telling me where to look. I turn off the phone, slip it back into my pocket, and quickly move to the Suburban’s tailgate to pop it open.

  It’s unlocked, the hydraulic hiss of the lift gate the only sound as the interior light illuminates the rear interior of the SUV. There it is. My bag.

  I quietly unsnap the top and loosen the draw string. Inside the bag, I find the Tec-9, a fifty round box magazine, and a shot shell box. Placing the Tec-9 and the magazine next t
o the bag, I pop open the revolver in my hand and drop the four remaining shot shell from the Governor into the box. The box and revolver go back into the bag and I sling the pack from the SUV and onto my shoulders.

  The Tec-9 feels familiar in my hands and, despite its notoriously cheap construction and propensity to jam, I love it. It’s a nice, lightweight machine pistol that is accurate at close range. The sites suck, but I’m not a sniper so I don’t care. And I keep it clean, so it doesn’t lock up on me as much as it does for others who don’t take care of their weapons. True, it’s not the Governor, my true weapon of choice, but the Tec-9 has saved my life too many times to count now.

  The long, thin ammo cartridge pops into the magazine catch and it clicks. I pull out the Tec’s operating handle from the safe position and then pull the handle all the way to the rear, engaging the striker. It’s ready to fire. I pull the shoulder strap over my head and reach up to pull the lift gate closed when there’s a noise coming from inside the SUV.

  Releasing the lift gate, I step back quickly and swing the Tec-9 into my hands. “Who’s there?” A lump spontaneously materializes in my throat, my breath shallows.

  The response sounds like a grunt and it’s followed by a hand reaching over the rear seatback, gripping the leather.

  “Who is it?” I repeat. “I’ve got a gun pointed at you.”

  No response.

  “Bella?” I’m trying to keep my voice low enough so nobody aside from the person in the SUV hears me. “Is that you? Are you okay?”

  Another moan. Stepping closer to the back of the SUV, I get my answer. It’s not Bella. The hand is too masculine and too dark, except along the knuckles where the skin is varying shades of pink skin.

  The hand lets go of the seat back and waves weakly at me before disappearing.

  Leaving the lift gate open, and the Tec-9 trained on the back interior of the SUV, I walk around the left side to the rear passenger door. In one motion, I pull open the door and take two quick steps back. Mack Mahoney’s head falls back, his left eye swollen shut and bruised, his right eye half closed. He moans again and mumbles something unintelligible.