Divine Justice (30 page)
For the next minute all that could be heard in the confines of the van was the heavy breathing of Reuben Rhodes.
Annabelle stared at him, a series of emotions competing on her features until one finally won out.
“I’m an idiot, Reuben. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah, well. Hell.” Red-faced, he looked down at the floorboard and punched the seat with one of his massive fists.
Before Annabelle could say anything, Caleb spoke up.
“Maybe we should keep going.”
A red-eyed Reuben looked over at him and smiled grimly. “Won’t be the first time. Or hopefully the last.”
Annabelle reached out and took each man’s hand in one of hers. “I just realized something,” she said.
“What’s that?” Caleb asked.
“That I should probably keep my big fat mouth shut. I’ve been acting like I’m the leader here, but I’m not even a full member of the Camel Club yet. I haven’t earned it.”
“You’re getting there,” said Reuben, giving her a quick smile.
She squeezed their hands and gave him a smile back.
Reuben said, “So what’s the next town on the list?”
Caleb looked at the sheet. “Divine.”
S
TONE CROUCHED LOW
with his pistol out. He didn’t like doing this alone, but with Tyree now implicated in whatever was going on here, he didn’t have many options for assistance. The trucks were already lining up. The methadone pop brigade. Rusty trucks and rustier miners looking for their joy juice. Only they wouldn’t find it here. The men came out of the old barn at the rear of Abby Riker’s property carrying large boxes. They were loaded in the back of each truck with a tarp over them. After that, the drivers pulled off.
Stone mentally kicked himself for not realizing the truth sooner. The very first night he’d arrived in town and seen this caravan of miners heading to the methadone clinic, Danny had told him that they got up this early because they had to get back in time to start the seven a.m. shift at the mines. Yet it was only a two-hour round trip from the clinic back here. Stone had made the trip himself to the hospital several times. He’d actually seen the men roll into the methadone clinic at nearly five in the morning.
At the courthouse he’d seen the manifest for the delivery of legal documents. It had listed eighty boxes, but there had only been sixty there. Six high, ten across. That had meant nothing to him until he’d thought of the discrepancy in time with the miners going to and from the clinic. At least three extra hours, missing boxes and one more thing.
He glanced at the grass in front of the barn. He’d seen it while he was here working, yet had really thought nothing of it. The carpet of grass was worn down and blackened, blackened by the filthy tires of the coal miners’ trucks as they came here to pick up their cargo. Just like the road in front of the snake-filled mine from which he’d barely escaped. Black dirt, black grass; he should have seen it sooner.
So the big question was, what was in the boxes?
After connecting all the dots Stone thought he knew the answer to this too. But would he get the chance to find out for sure?
There was one truck left. The boxes were put in the cargo bed. Right before he tied the tarp over them, the driver opened one of the boxes and pulled out what looked to be a small black bag. Stone had seen each of the other drivers do the same thing. He closed the box and was about to secure the tarp when one of the other men who’d been helping load the boxes called to him. They went into the barn together.
Stone slid his pistol in his waistband and crept out of the woods, keeping as low to the ground as he could. There was a bright full moon that had made the night far less dark than usual. He reached the truck, glancing at the barn as he did so. He moved the tarp away and slowly slid a box toward him. Fortunately it wasn’t taped shut, just closed up. He opened it and peered in.
He’d been right. Clear baggies filled with what looked to be prescription drugs. Probably in the oxycodone family. Two hundred bucks a pill on the street, Willie had said. Based on that he was looking at millions of dollars in this box alone.
And the
black
baggies the druggie miners had taken were probably their payment for driving the boxes to what was probably the next step in the pipeline, with the final destination being some major urban area on the East Coast. It was pretty powerful leverage when all your employees were addicts. They’d do whatever you told them to get the pain meds they couldn’t otherwise afford. It was also pretty damn heartless—not surprising with drug dealers.
With the sixth sense that he possessed, Stone reacted to the presence he suddenly felt behind him. Yet it was still a fraction of a second too late.
The gun muzzle was next to his head and Stone heard the man say, “You move, you die.”
Stone could feel the man’s other hand expertly pat him. His gun was yanked out of his pants, dropped to the dirt and kicked under the truck.
Stone didn’t move. He just stood there with a baggie of pills clutched in one hand.
The man said, “What the hell is that?”
“Illegal prescription drugs,” Stone said, confused. “Why, who the hell are you?”
“Joe Knox. Central Intelligence. And you’re John Carr.”
Stone didn’t know whether to feel a bit of relief that it was the CIA who’d caught up to him and not the drug runners. However, the end result might not be all that different. “Well, Mr. Knox, you just walked into a drug transport going down.”
“What?”
“I suggest we carry on this conversation somewhere else.” Stone pointed to the men coming out of the barn.
“Hey!” one of them screamed when they saw the pair next to the truck. Shotguns and pistols appeared in the men’s hands even as other men rushed out of the barn to join them.
“Run, Knox!”
Using the truck as a shield, Knox and Stone sprinted off, hurtling into the woods. The men raced after them, taking aim with their weapons.
Running next to Stone, Knox snapped, “What the hell is going on?”
“Your timing was as bad as my selection of towns to hide out in.” Stone glanced behind them. “Look out.” He grabbed Knox by the sleeve and pulled him off the path they were on. A moment later a shotgun blast ripped the limb off a tree that Knox had been next to.
Knox pointed his pistol over his head and fired four shots in a wide swath to buy them some time. The only thing it bought was a barrage of bullets, one of which burned a crease in Knox’s right arm but didn’t go in.
“Damn it!” He clutched his wounded limb but kept running.
In a flash Stone grabbed the pistol from his hand, whirled around and emptied the clip at the men coming for them. He hit one of them and placed his shots so well that the other pursuers were forced to take cover.
Stone said, “This way, quick!”
They cut across a gulley, hit the asphalt road, crossed it in three leaps and plunged into the woods on the other side.
“How’s the arm?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Got another clip?” Stone asked.
Knox dug in his pocket and flipped it to him. “Damn sorry I took your gun now.”
“Me too.” Stone slapped the ammo clip in and held the gun ready.
“We can’t outrun them,” Knox said, panting, even as he nervously eyed the gun in Stone’s hand.
“No, we can’t. They look a lot younger than we are.”
“You’re a damn good shot.”
“I don’t think it’ll matter this time.”
“You are John Carr, aren’t you?”
“He’s dead.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Another bullet blast came at them, forcing them to turn east. They raced up a slope, both men’s breaths coming in gasps now even as they slowed. Stone slipped on some mud and fell down. Knox stooped and helped him up.
They were nearly at the top of the hill.
Stone said, “Get behind that tree, Knox. We’ve got some high ground here and I don’t want to waste it.”
Knox took cover and watched as Stone nimbly scaled an oak, shimmied out onto a thick branch, took aim and when the first man appeared out of the brush he opened fire. The man yelled out and went down. Two other men appeared behind him. When they raised their weapons, Stone shot one of them in the leg. A moment later a barrage of gunfire erupted from the woods. Stone returned it, spraying shots all across the front of the tree line. He jumped to the ground, rejoined Knox and handed him back the gun.
Knox looked surprised. “You do understand that I’m here to arrest you for the murders of Carter Gray and Senator Simpson?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“So why are you giving me back my gun?”
“Because it’s empty.”
They ran hard, or as hard as two middle-aged men could manage over hilly terrain.
Knox said, “Shit!”
Up ahead they heard the men coming.
“They outflanked us,” Stone gasped.
They stopped running as four men with shotguns broke through the brush and took aim. Behind them four more men stood, panting, guns fixed on them.
Knox held his pistol up in a surrender position. “Would it make a difference if I told you I’m a federal agent with a shitload of backup heading your way?”
One of the men placed a shot that came within an inch of taking off Knox’s right ear.
“That answer your question?” the shooter said. “Now put your gun down real slow.”
For a number of reasons Stone had half expected to see Tyree standing there, but he didn’t recognize this guy.
“I’m just here to take this man into custody,” Knox said, indicating Stone. “I don’t give a damn what else is going on.”
“Right, and then we just go about our business and trust you and your friend to keep quiet. Drop the gun, I ain’t asking again.”
Knox bent down and placed his pistol on the ground. One of the men stepped forward and pocketed it along with his wallet and cell phone. They did the same with Stone.
The man who’d fired the shot flipped open the wallet and checked the ID. He looked up at Knox and slowly shook his head in disbelief. He spoke into a walkie-talkie.
“We got a big problem down here.”
After a minute or so of conversation the man put the walkie-talkie away on a holder on his belt.
“Do we kill ’em here?” one man asked.
“No, we don’t kill ’em here,” he snapped. “We got to get this figured out.” He motioned to his men. “Tie ’em up.”
They shot forward and expertly bound Knox and Stone together. They carried the pair back to the road, where they were laid facedown in the cargo bed of a pickup truck. It drove off while the other men piled into other vehicles that had pulled up behind the truck.
Five minutes later the truck raced off the road and into a clearing, where it spun to a stop in a swirl of dirt and ripped-up grass.
Stone heard it before Knox did.
“Chopper.”
It landed next to the truck, its prop wash so strong that, roped together as they were, Stone and Knox had a hard time keeping their balance as they were pulled out of the truck and loaded into the aircraft. Two armed men climbed in with them and the chopper lifted off.
“Where are we going?” Knox said.
When the men didn’t answer he looked over at Stone. “Any ideas?”
Stone glanced around the interior of the chopper. He’d only seen one other chopper up here before. “I think we’re going to Dead Rock.”
“What the hell is Dead Rock?”
Stone looked out the window. “That.”
Knox crowded next to him and gazed down at the lights of the prison.
“Supermax prison,” Stone volunteered.
“Why the hell are drug runners taking us to a super—” Knox broke off, his face ashen. “We’re screwed.”
“Yes, we are.”
A
S THE VAN DRIFTED
down the street early the next morning, Annabelle, Caleb and Reuben eyed the people walking by on the sidewalks; several of them stared back with suspicion.
“Not a very welcoming lot, are they?” said Caleb.
“Why should they be?” growled Reuben. “They don’t know who we are or what we want. All they know is that we’re not from here.”
Annabelle nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll have to tread carefully.”
“We may not have time to tread carefully,” Reuben pointed out. “Knox had a big head start. He might have already gotten to Oliver for all we know.”
“There’s an obvious starting place,” Caleb pointed out.
The three of them stared at the sheriff’s office and jail next to the courthouse.
“Stop the van, Caleb,” said Annabelle. “I’ll go in.”
“You want some backup?” Reuben wanted to know.
“Not now. We need to keep something in reserve in case things go to hell.”
“How are you going to play it?” Caleb asked. “FBI or wronged woman?”
“Neither. New angle.”
She checked her face and hair in the rearview mirror, slid open the door and climbed out.
“If I’m not back in ten minutes, pull off and I’ll meet you at that end of the street.”
“What if you don’t come out at all?” asked Reuben.
“Then assume I blew it, just start driving and don’t stop.”
She slid the door closed and walked into the building.
“Hello?” she called out. “Hello?”
A door opened and Lincoln Tyree stepped into the small waiting area.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Annabelle stared up at the tall lawman resplendent in his crisply starched uniform and highly polished boots with a leading man’s jaw and brooding eyes.
“I sure hope so. I’m looking for someone.” She drew a photo out of her pocket and showed it to him. “Have you seen him?”
Tyree studied the photo of Oliver Stone but made no immediate reaction. “Why don’t you step on in here?” He held open his office door.
Annabelle hesitated. “I just need to know if you’ve seen him.”
“And I need to know why you’re looking for him.”
“So you have seen him?”
He indicated the open door.
Annabelle shrugged and walked past him and into the office. There was another man seated there. He was in a seersucker suit with a red bow tie.
“This here is Charlie Trimble, runs the local paper.”
Trimble shook Annabelle’s hand.
