Bad Penny (12 page)

10
Truck Stop

TO THE UNTRAINED EYE, fields of hay looked peaceful, pastoral. And some might be, but not in Wyoming. Frank had found that those fields the farmers irrigated were actually gauntlets. Mosquitoes thrived in the moist cover. And so when any idiot thought it would be a dandy idea to prance through one, the swarms of Hell rose up to suck every last pint out of the man. Or at least try to infect him with malaria or West Nile. In some places where they flood irrigated, the mosquitoes swarmed above the field in columns and sheets as big as Winnebagos, whining with mad blood-fury.

You hoped for a wind. Because the little buggers would be swept away when they rose to devour you. Frank had a wind. He took this as a good sign and ran through the field of meadow grass. He came to the end, hopped another barbed wire fence, and ran into another field of dark green alfalfa. Halfway through, he realized he didn’t know exactly where Ed had parked, so he called Sam.

Sam picked up, the roar of the Cessna in the background, but then Frank spotted the Nissan. There was a gray car parked way out in the southwest corner of the massive parking lot, away from everything else. The hood was up. A moment later Jesus appeared from behind the hood, his back to the car and the field, holding his hand to his ear. He was on the phone.

Bingo.

Frank hung up. So it
was
engine troubles. Which meant Ed was probably inside trying to get a part or fluid. Or maybe just getting something to eat.

And where was Tony? No way Ed would take him into the truck stop. So Tony had to be in the car behind those cola windows. Unless Ed had already taken care of him, which was an option that had to be considered and might explain why Ed was so late getting to this point. Maybe the car troubles were secondary.

Frank didn’t want to contemplate that. He’d go in with the assumption Tony was there. And if he wasn’t, then this little hostage rescue mission was going to take on an entirely different flavor.

He was standing in plain sight of anyone in the parking lot. He needed to get to the edge of the field, to the road that fronted the entrance to the truck stop. There were cottonwoods all along the road that would provide good cover. He could get within twenty feet of the Nissan going that way. Frank was about to move when Jesus turned around, sunglasses on the top of his head, still talking on the phone. He looked right at Frank.

Frank’s heart banged. He wanted to hit the deck; instead, he bent over and dug up a handful of dirt. He brought it up to his nose and crumbled it in his fingers. He had no idea if ranchers ever smelled their dirt, but he was pretty sure Jesus didn’t know that either.

He threw the dirt down and walked a few more paces, ignoring Jesus. The mind often saw what it expected to see. He bent down, grabbed another handful of dirt and smelled it. He turned his back to Jesus, put his hands on his hips like he was surveying the field. Then he pulled out his phone, acted like he was calling someone and began to gesticulate. He walked slowly through the alfalfa straight toward the cottonwoods. He told himself he was a farmer, concerned with his field. He was boring, unremarkable, nothing to look at.

He just kept walking, talking to nobody on his phone, looking down at the ground. He desperately wanted to see what Jesus was doing, but controlled himself. Only when he was almost to the fence did he glance back.

Jesus had moved. He was now standing in front of the hood, looking down at the motor, still holding his phone to his ear.

Frank pressed down the top strand of barbed-wire and swung one leg over. Still holding it down, he swung the other leg over. Then he slipped between two huge old cottonwoods onto the shoulder of the road. The trees broke the wind, and a number of mosquitoes came at him. It was summer; Frank had shaved his head. He swatted the buggers away from his neck and exposed scalp and wished he had more hair.

He watched the Nissan through the trees. He watched for Ed. There was a lot of deadfall here, but none of it looked useful. The branches were either too thick, or too old and rotted, or much too small. He thought about picking up a stone, but there weren’t any visible in the tall grass. So it was just him, with the gifts Mother Nature had given him. He was going to need to get in close.

He walked the final fifty yards and approached the corner where the field ended and the parking lot began. Jesus had lit up a cigarette. He was leaning against the side of the car, facing the truck stop, his phone still up to his ear.

Only a fat tree and a few yards of blacktop stood between Frank and the car. The wind was making a racket through the branches of the trees, which would mask his approach.

The hood was up, blocking most of the view inside the car. He looked past the car at the front doors of the truck stop. Ed wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the parking lot. This was about as good as it was going to get.

When you practiced raids, you quickly learned that the times you employ speed, surprise, and shock action work out a lot better than the times you don’t. Especially in hostage situations. Surprise was easy to blow on the approach. You needed noise discipline. You needed to walk quietly, avoid obstacles, and keep out of view.

The wind gusted through the trees which cast shadows over this part of the parking lot. There were some small twigs on the ground between him and the car. There was dirt and grit that would grind under foot. He looked around the parking lot to see if there was anyone watching; way down the strip of lawn at the other end of the parking lot an extremely fat motorist in shorts, sandals, and socks was letting his tiny dog sniff about the lawn. The man was looking the other way.

Frank moved out, walking until the raised hood blocked Jesus’s view of his approach. Then he slipped across the sidewalk and over a strip of lawn that bordered the whole stop. He kept the raised hood between him and Jesus. He stepped over the curb and onto the asphalt. The wind gusted again, masking the grating of the grit under his feet. He crossed the last few yards to the front of the car. The engine was filthy. The yellow caps to the windshield wiper and brake fluids and the yellow handles to oil and transmission fluid were dark brown.

Frank walked around the open hood to the side where Jesus leaned up against the car. He was still on the phone, taking a drag on his cigarette. Frank took another step, and Jesus glanced over. Then his eyes widened in alarm. He reached for the gun in the waistband behind his back, but Frank was already on him.

He grabbed Jesus’s gun hand with both of his and twisted it up and around into his back. Jesus automatically faced into the car. Jesus struggled, but Frank grabbed him by the hair and banged his face into the car. He banged it again hard for good measure. He kept Jesus’s arm twisted up behind his back with one hand. With the other Frank slid the gun at Jesus’s waistband out of its holster and into his own pocket. It was a nice nine millimeter semi-automatic.

Frank’s adrenaline and rage kicked in high gear. He banged Jesus’s head into the car a third time, and blood began to run down the man’s nose. You wanted controlled aggression in a fight, but Frank didn’t know if he was going to be able to control this.

He yanked Jesus back and marched him around to the front of the car, away from the eyes at the truck stop. But Jesus still had one free arm. He reached into his pants on that side and came out with a tactical knife. The double-edged spear point blade shot forward out of the housing and locked in place.

“Not smart,” Frank said and swept the man’s feet out from under him. Jesus slammed into the car and slid down by the front passenger’s wheel. Frank fell upon him, put one knee into the man’s back, then banged the knife out of his hand. It was a Benchmade. Said so right on that razor sharp four inch steel blade. Four inches is about a long as a big man’s index finger. Plenty of length to slash, plenty to strike vital organs in a thrust. He kicked the knife away. “Those knives are only for law enforcement and the military,” Frank said. “I don’t think I saw your badge.”

“You’re dead,” Jesus slurred.

“Don’t give me ideas,” Frank said and pressed on the back of Jesus’s neck with all his weight. He looked back across the parking lot toward the front of the truck stop. There was nothing going on. Out along the curbing, the fat motorist had missed the whole thing and was watching his dog.

Frank turned back to Jesus, and searched him for more weapons. There was nothing in his waistband or pockets, nothing around his ankles.

He thought a moment about finishing Jesus right there. Frank had not been trained as a cop. He’d been trained to kill. And killing Jesus would have been the smart thing to do. If interrogated, he could say it was in self defense. He could say he’d feared for his life and the life of his nephew in the car. Jesus was a dirt bag. A judge and jury would certainly take that into consideration. Of course, to them Frank was a dirt bag as well. But Frank wasn’t going to kill Jesus.

It would have been nice if he’d thought to bring some rope or wire—something to tie up this moron. But he’d have to make do with what he had, so he undid Jesus’s black leather belt and pulled it off his pants. It was a real looker, all studded with bits of chrome. Frank cinched it up tight around the man’s wrists, retrieved Jesus’s knife, and made a nice hole and buckled it tight. Then he wrapped the rest of the belt round and round the wrists and tied it so there was nothing for Jesus to grab onto.

Frank felt his back prickle, and he twisted round. Ed was standing about five yards away, pointing his Springfield subcompact right at him. On the ground next to him, stood a blue radiator fluid container. The container was all wet, but not with coolant. It was wet with water, and Frank realized Ed hadn’t been in the truck stop; he’d been around back or out among the semis getting water.

Frank cursed.

Ed said, “I wouldn’t be making any sudden moves if I were you.”

Frank was in an awkward position, but action was always faster than reaction. Two or three steps and he’d be ten feet away and running. Ten feet might not seem like a lot of space, but they’d done studies on New York cops, which had been repeated elsewhere. They’d counted the number of bullets shot versus the number of hits in real-life shootouts. Here were guys that repeatedly practiced their marksmanship, but put them in a high stress situation, and they had a hard time hitting more than twenty-five percent of the time. And that was within a range of six feet.

Ed wasn’t a cop. Frank would be surprised if Ed practiced at all. Frank would put some distance between him and Ed, and then he’d turn and train Jesus’s gun on him. And then they’d see what was what.

Frank had years of training, multiple tours, numerous missions. He’d lost some of his edge, but Ed was nothing more than a psychopath. There was nothing in his muscle memory except evil. And now he was going to go down.

Frank said, “Ed, your hair looks like crap. Looks like someone’s been at it with a leaf mulcher.”

“What?”

Now
, Frank thought.

But at that moment a white panel van shot past the back end of the car and slammed on its brakes, cutting off Frank’s escape. The side door slid open. Inside was a Hispanic guy in his early twenties. His hair had been moussed up. His arms sported a number of tats. He knelt on one leg. In his hands was a twelve gauge shot gun with a short eighteen inch barrel. A riot gun. Perfect for crowd control, for home defense, and backing up your fellow crack-brained vato in parking lots. He pointed it at Frank. The driver opened his door and jumped out as did another man riding in the passenger’s seat.

Frank could try to draw Jesus’s piece in his pocket, but he wouldn’t be quick enough. Not with three of them. Not with him kneeling all awkward over Jesus.

Ed said, “What am I going to do with you, Frank? You’re like a freaking bad penny. Showing up here. How the hell?”

“Just give me Tony, and I’m out of your hair.”

Ed motioned at Jesus who was trying to squirm out of his bonds. “You’ve gone and complicated things, Frank. You’re going to get into the van; we’ll talk on the road.”

“We’re not going anywhere.”

Ed motioned with his head, and the driver and third man walked around to the other side of the Nissan and opened the rear door. They pulled Tony out, who was awake, but groggy, and helped him into the van. His wrists were zip-tied. Then they went back for the girl, who was zip-tied as well. Somebody must have got a bulk deal on those restraints.

Frank glanced around the parking lot. If anybody had been watching, it would have made a real spectacle. But nobody was looking. The Nissan was way out in the corner of the lot, in the shade. And anyone looking this way from the truck stop would have the sun in their eyes.

Ed said, “You’re starting to piss me off, Frank. Now get in the van.”

Ed’s eyes were flat and lifeless. He was ready to kill.

Frank said, “I’ll get in the van. Then we’re going to talk about things you don’t do to your ex-cellie.”

Ed said, “Lie face down on the ground and put your hands behind your back.”

If Frank started shouting, nobody would hear over the wind. Not clearly. They wouldn’t know what was going on. And Ed still had Tony.

Frank had blown it. He should have done a 360 recon round the whole place, but then he probably would have missed his opportunity. Frustration bunched up inside him, but there was nothing for him to do. He’d lost this round, so Frank lay down on the ground and put his hands behind his back. Made nice big fists side to side, gave himself lots of room.

The driver obviously knew Frank’s fist trick because he turned Frank’s hands so they were facing each other and only then bound them up with a sturdy cuff zip-tie. He searched Frank and took his phone and Jesus’s gun. Then he stepped back.

Ed hid his gun in his vest pocket, but kept it pointed at Frank. No reason to flash it in public for all the truck stop patrons to see.

Frank walked over and climbed into the van, the guy with the shotgun tracing him the whole way. The back of this van was mostly bare like a delivery truck. A piece of filthy carpet had been thrown on the floor, and someone had made a solid bench out of particle board to go over the wheel well along one side. The bench was bolted to the floor. One end of a long cable used for locking bicycles up was bolted at one end. Frank wondered what it was for.