Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1) (33 page)

34

Marlon was tripping hard within a short while.
 
Ben and Lester had decided not to leave the former professor behind, deciding it wouldn’t be safe, considering how many mushrooms the man had eaten and the fact that Grankin and his men could come back at any time.

Now, after hiking for the past half hour, the three men paused for a breather.
 
Luckily, Lester had brought some bottles of water that he kept in his go bag in his sheriff’s rig.
 
They all sipped on the water now.

“The tracks split off here,” Ben said.
 
“Not sure why.”

They had not been able to determine the total number of men, since many of the tracks seemed to blend together in the mud.
 
By now they had left the private land held by the Mammoth Paper Company, and had entered the Siuslaw National Forest.
 
Ben knew that if they continued heading west they would eventually hit the Pacific Ocean, but that would be about twenty miles of rough going through some of the most inhospitable brambles and tangled forest imaginable.
 
He was having a hard time trying to figure out why the foreman would have entered this forest.
 
Most hunters even avoided this area, since there were far easier places to find deer and elk.
 
Here, it was impossible to see more than twenty yards.
 
They could be walking right into a trap.

“We should split up,” Lester said.
 
“I can head up the north trail and you two can stick to the west trail.”

“That’s not a good idea,” Ben said.
 
“When your backup finally makes it up to our vehicles, they’ll have a rough time finding us.”

As Ben said this, the rain finally started to fall in a heavy deluge.
 
They had been lucky the rain held off as long as it had, or they probably wouldn’t have been able to follow the tracks this far.
 
At least they seemed to be on a game trail of some sort—perhaps something used by both deer and elk.
 
But it was really hard to tell, because the human tracks had wiped out any sign of animal tracks.

Lester pulled out his SAT phone, punched in a number, and waited for an answer.
 
“I’ll let my boss know where we went.”

Ben found his handheld GPS and set a waypoint, which also pulled up elevation and their current location.
 
They were one point two miles from their vehicles.

The deputy told his men their GPS coordinates and their disposition, explaining they would be splitting up and continue their tracking.
 
Especially in light of the recent rainy conditions.
 
Then Lester dug into his backpack and found a radio, which he handed to Ben.

Checking the battery level, Ben saw the radio was fully charged.
 
They set their channel and backup channels, before Lester gave a thumbs up and drifted slowly into the misty rain toward the north.

Ben glanced to Marlon, who was sitting on a pile of moss under a large fir tree, his head cocked to one side as he observed something interesting.

“What is it?” Ben asked Marlon.

The Bigfoot hunter’s eyes drifted up to Ben.
 
“Wow.
 
I haven’t done mushrooms in years.
 
I’ve forgotten how freeing psychedelic mushrooms are.
 
They’re filled with psilocybin and psilocin.”
 
Then Marlon laughed.
 
“Man, why’d I ever stop?”

“Are you all right to continue on?” Ben asked.

“I’d rather just sit here and watch the needles drop, man.”

Needles?
 
He must have meant the rain.
 
Damn it!
 
He couldn’t babysit this guy and still move in to find these people.
 
Maybe he should just sit here with Marlon until backup arrived.

“You know there are more than twenty species of psychedelic mushrooms in America alone?” Marlon said.
 
“More than a hundred worldwide.
 
I should have known better.
 
What was I thinking?”

“It was a mistake,” Ben said.
 
“How many did you eat?”

“More than five grams,” Marlon said, his eyes seeming to swirl in circles.
 
“That’s a heavy dose.
 
Even for me.
 
I smoke a lot of pot, but this is a whole other trip.”

Jesus, what could Ben do?
 
He didn’t want to take Marlon with him.
 
But could he actually leave the man behind?

When the first shot fired, it startled the both of them, even though it was off in the distance, the sound attenuated by the rain and the thick forest.

“That was one helluva a fart, Ben,” Marlon said, and then giggled.

All right, now Ben had no choice.
 
“I’m going to leave you right here.
 
Go up that hill a little ways and hide in the thick trees.
 
If anyone comes down these trails and it’s not me or Lester, you hold tight.
 
If it’s the sheriff and his men coming from the vehicles, call out to him so you don’t get shot.
 
Can you do that?”

“Oh, yeah.
 
Go ahead.
 
Leave me.”

Reluctantly, Ben left Marlon behind.
 
Now he hurried up the narrow trail.
 
He picked up his pace when the second shot broke the silence.

•

Marlon suddenly swiveled his head around, trying his best to discern where he was and what he was doing there.
 
Wasn’t he just talking with someone?
 
Yes.
 
It was Ben.
 
What happened to Ben?

He shrugged and climbed a small hill, his feet slipping on the wet mossy surface.
 
When he was nearly to the top of the hill, his feet slipped and he fell backwards, rolling down the hill, his head hitting the ground hard and stunning him.

Not sure if he had been knocked out, or if he had simply been concussed marginally, he lay with his face against the wet ground, his eyes seeing flashes of movement just inside the trees to his right.
 
The drops pricked his skin like a thousand little needles falling from God.
 
A feeling of complete euphoria overcame every cell in his body, his mind not understanding the loud noises that sounded like someone was smashing pans together.

When more movement came from the trees some twenty yards away, he rolled slightly on his side for a better view.
 
Then he saw it.
 
The face and shoulders of a furry beast.

The last thing he said was “Sasquatch.”

35

By the time Ben heard the next shot, he was at least a quarter mile deeper into the Siuslaw National Forest.
 
He picked up his pace now, keeping his eyes open for any movement ahead.
 
He lifted his AR-15 to the shooting position, his focus through the open sites, ignoring for now the holographic red circle.
 
Instead of using a scope for this rifle, which would have been useless in this thick forest, he was glad he had stuck with the more open options.
 
He could acquire a target and fire without worrying about lens refraction or moisture blur.

Another shot.
 
This one was closer.
 
And the shot was followed by yelling.
 
But it wasn’t English.
 
It was both Spanish and Russian.
 
The voices echoed through the thick forest and the heavy drizzle, the sound getting closer with each step Ben took.

He lowered his rifle to get through a thick patch of young spruce.
 
When he came through the other side, the forest opened up slightly and angled down a gully.

Ben stopped and crouched down, his rifle shoved into his right shoulder and his eyes picking up a target.
 
Two men hid behind large fir trunks separated by about twenty yards, their focus on a spot at least fifty yards or more farther down the hill.

He calculated the distance to be right at about a hundred yards.
 
Not a difficult shot, but did he have the authority to take the shot.
 
After all, these men were not trying to kill him.
 
Not yet.

Trying to get a little better view of the men, Ben didn’t recognize either of them.
 
However, they could have been part of the shooting team that attacked him at Marlon’s house, along the forest road, and the men at the truffle camp.

Now he heard a radio squawk, followed by what must have been Russian.

Then he saw the foreman, Carlos Sala, peer out from behind a large hemlock tree in the distance.

He needed to do something or these men would call in their friends, if they had not already done so.
 
Luckily, if the other men cut across country it would take them quite a while to fight through the brambles.

Yet, his bigger problem was the fact that he didn’t know the full nature of the situation.
 
What if the foreman was the killer of Marco Alvarez?
 
Perhaps.

Ben rose up, his rifle still aimed at one of the men down the hill.
 
He needed to close in on them, but still maintain his high ground.
 
So he vectored to his left, which would keep the men in view and give him a better view of the foreman.
 
Finally he reached a massive fir and set himself up behind it, his view coming from the left side of the thick bark.
 
Now he guessed he was about seventy yards from his targets.

Time to change the scenario.
 
“Federal agent,” Ben yelled, startling the men down the hill.
 
Technically not true, but it would throw the men off.
 
Make them consider their actions.

The men turned and tried to find Ben, but by now he guessed he would be barely visible to them, especially under these weather conditions and the darkness of the forest cover.

One of the men got his radio and spoke into it, while the other shifted his position to hide from Ben.

Pulling out his radio, Ben pushed the talk button and said, “I’ve got two targets and the foreman.”

A few seconds passed and finally Lester responded.
 
“Roger that,” the deputy whispered.
 
“I’ve seen flashes of movement just ahead of me.
 
They’re moving now toward the south.”

“Heading toward my position,” Ben said.
 
“I’ve got them pinned down.”

Suddenly both of the Russians started shooting toward Ben.
 
But they only had semi-automatic handguns.
 
Ben was barely in their effective range.
 
Based on the number of rounds flying through the forest, he guessed they must have been firing 9mm rounds.

“You hear that?” Ben said into his radio.

“Yes, sir,” Lester said.
 
“If they’re firing on you, fire back.”

He had identified himself as a federal agent, and the Russians had still fired on him.
 
He set the radio down and aimed his AR-15 toward the closest man, who was now hidden somewhat by the large tree.

Ben found a small target.
 
The left arm and shoulder holding the handgun.
 
A southpaw.
 
Ben calmed his breathing, set the red circle on the target, and pressed off one round, hitting his target.
 
The man dropped his gun and fell to his knees.
 
Then he reached out with his right hand and found his gun before scooting back behind the tree.

Now bullets started coming from the foreman’s position.
 
Carlos Sala also had a handgun.

The Russians were now stuck in a crossfire.

Ben had an idea.
 
He knew a little Spanish, so he yelled out to the foreman saying who he was.
 
The two of them had met a number of times and Carlos would trust him.
 
Then Ben yelled in English, “We’ve got you completely surrounded.
 
Drop your weapons.”

The Russians laughed and yelled back in their language.

All right.
 
Have it your way, Ben thought.
 
He switched to the second target and fired off about half of his 30-round magazine, ripping the shit out of the bark in front of the man.
 
Now they knew they were outgunned.

But Ben also knew that the men were simply holding out for their buddies to show up.
 
He guessed there were at least two or three more men, including Vlad Grankin and his bald-headed associate.
 
And he had no idea what kind of firepower the others might have.
 
Hopefully they only had handguns.

Ben had to get more control of the situation.
 
He needed to get to Carlos.
 
He had just one track to make it to the man, and that would not be easy.

With resolve, he sprinted across the hillside, keeping hidden behind as many trees as possible.

The two men sustained fire, the bullets ripping through the rain and bursting through tree limbs.
 
He stopped to catch his breath behind another tree.

From this location, Ben could see the foreman much better.
 
He pointed for the man to move toward him while Ben covered him with his rifle.
 
The man nodded.

As soon as Carlos started running and the Russians saw his movement, bullets started flying at the man.
 
But Ben quickly opened fire at the Russians, forcing them back around the other side of their trees.
 
When the Russians tried to fire, Ben pushed them back until Carlos came crashing to the ground behind Ben.

“Am I glad to see you,” Carlos said, out of breath.

Ben replaced his empty magazine with a full one, releasing the bolt on the first round.
 
Then he pointed his rifle at the foreman and said, “Put down your gun.”

“What the hell,” the foreman said.

“Do it,” Ben demanded.
 
He would have to have the sheriff’s department check the man’s handgun for ballistics to see if that was the gun that had killed Marco Alvarez.

“We are on the same side.”

“Until we sort this out,” Ben said, “I’m only on my side.”

Reluctantly, the foreman threw his 9mm handgun toward Ben, who picked it up and checked it over.
 
It was a Glock just like the one on his own hip.

“Why are these men after you?” Ben asked.

“It’s a long story,” Carlos said.

“We’ve got a little time.”

After a bit of hesitation, Carlos said, “I was a member of the Salvadoran Army during the Civil War.
 
In the same unit as Hernando Alvarez.
 
Our leader was a brutal man.
 
We did not agree with his tactics.
 
But what could we do?
 
We were only young men at the time, doing as we were told.”

“You were part of a Death Squad,” Ben surmised.
 
He kept his eyes on the Russians in case they decided to bolt.

“No, no, no.
 
Well, eventually our unit became known as the Diablo Company.
 
Hernando and I found out that our captain was selling us out to the guerrillas.
 
We were both wounded in a raid in the mountains.
 
Because of our wounds, we were discharged.
 
But only with the help of a Catholic priest.”

“Let me guess,” Ben said.
 
“Father Murphy.”

“Exactly.”

“And he helped you both come to America.”

“Yes.”

“How did Marco Alvarez get involved?”

Carlos shook his head, obviously reticent.

“I can turn you over to these Russians,” Ben said.

“No, they killed Marco.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I remembered Vlad Grankin from El Salvador,” Carlos said.
 
“When he came around to try to buy the winery, I saw him.
 
And I never forgot the man who sold out my company.
 
The Russian saw me talking with Marco one day and he must have pieced it together.
 
Marco looks just like his father did back in El Salvador.
 
Grankin must have made the connection.”

“Why did he let you live?”

“I don’t think he recognized me.
 
I look different now.”

Ben let out a deep breath.
 
“All right.
 
But that doesn’t explain how you got up in the Siuslaw today with the Russians chasing you.”

“That sheriff’s deputy kept coming to ask questions,” Carlos said.
 
“I assumed Grankin was back to his old tricks and had this deputy on his payroll.
 
They were going to pin Marco’s murder on me.
 
Or worse.”