KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set (30 page)

“I love you.”

I think back on the mess in Colorado. I ask my father, “Hey, Doc … who was running that loco on the hazmat train?”

“They never caught anyone and didn’t find a body, either.”

Thinking about that “pretty” CIA agent, I ask my father. “Did you see the CIA agent who made
the arrangements to fly us all back here?”

“No, son — didn’t.”

“Did you happen to catch her name?”

“I think Tamara said it was Bee something. Let me think. Yeah, Bee Weighton, I believe. Sounded like an alias to us.”

Who was Rillie actually working for — the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security, Judge Hammer, or could it have really been the foreign financiers of Operation Thundertrain — or even a foreign power?

And who was the guy in the white ski mask behind her in Doc’s basement?

Rillie knew I had a ballistic vest in the pack. She put it there along with the rest of the “shopping” list, including the
unrequested
blank rounds. Why did she only shoot me in the torso with the little 9mm Mach 10 if she wanted to kill me — or was it a show for the guy in the ski mask?

If she didn’t want me dead, why did she load my M-4 magazines with blanks? Did she know the
bad guys were ordered to capture and not kill me?

And what about Big Deal’s Russian aunt/wife? How did she play into all this?

“Yeah …,” I said, certain I’d see the
really-wild,
strawberry-blonde loco driver again someday. But that didn’t matter, right now. For the next few minutes, that little hospital room would be paradise. I could not have been anyplace better. As my father and his Mary hugged, I pulled my kids even closer. I repeated, “…an alias.”

—  *  —

—To the reader, from CWE Railroad Detective R. Yule Dye:

This novel portrays a fictitious account of a terrorist act for entertainment purposes. Although much of the facts, depictions, and concerns within are real, some may not be in detail, are simplified or are depicted less than accurately for
good reason: there are a lot of nuts out there.

For anyone who would read this fictional story and take from it some idea that they might vandalize or otherwise sabotage American railroad or government property in order to cause bodily harm or personal notoriety, may they go straight to Hell. That’s the only good place for such people.

With them in mind, understand that not only American rail and government security is especially alert since the days and years following 9/11, so are the workers and the public around such essential activities. You’ll not fare well attempting anything of even a misdemeanor prank in nature.

Don’t forget
R. Yule Dye
.

I’m out there embodied in thousands of vigilant good-doers, everywhere you turn. Find a hobby, wade out into a rip tide, go commit yourself to an insane asylum and leave the rest of the
good folks alone.

By the way, the “R” stands for Robert.

Be good! –R. Yule Dye.

The Department of Homeland Security says, “If you see something, say something!” call 911 to report all suspicious activity.

Knight's Ransom

An E Z Knight Novel

From

"The E Z Knight Reports" Series

Volume 4

by

Gordon A Kessler

This book is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Knight's Ransom
Copyright © 2012 Gordon A Kessler

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.

Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Cover Designed by: Gordon A Kessler. Copyright © 2012 Gordon A Kessler http://GordonKessler.com, http://www.ReadersMatrix.com

EBook ASIN: B007F08MU8

Version 08.27.2012

Paperback version:
ISBN-13: 978-1470104320 & ISBN-10: 1470104326

Dedication

Much work goes
into writing an entertaining novel and quite a bit of it isn't done by the author. I have numerous friends and fellow authors who allow me to bounce off ideas and a couple of great editors who proofread my stories prior to publishing. They are vigilant, and they help me produce what I feel is quality fiction — entertainment. I'd like to thank them now.

Bonnie E, Tonya C, Gary C, Darlene J, Julie C, Hazel H, Denise B  — thank you, my good friends! I dedicate this first book in "The E Z Knight Reports" series to you.

Prologue

What See-Saw Saw

The Wizard's Grog Tavern, Smokey's Marina, Southern California.

Three dark figures
approach the back entrance of The Wizard's Grog as Osia "Oz" Papadopoulos flips the
open
sign over to
closed
.

The big Greek proprietor shakes his head — can't see them well in the darkness outside.

They aren't deterred. A boot is raised.

The door bursts open.

The edge of the door slams into Oz's nose, forehead and cheek. Window glass showers his face. He falls back stunned as the intruders rush in and turn off the lights.

Two of them have him by the arms now, and he struggles. But they're strong and he's past his prime and still a little woozy from the slam to the head.

"Take us to back room," the tallest one says. He has a slight accent. Oz can't make it out for sure — Slavic, but it didn't sound like typical Russian.

"
Humph!
" Oz answers. "I'd rather have sand packed up my ass."

"Ve can do that for you, too," says the talker. He turns on a flashlight and flicks it around. "This vay."

Oz is whisked away to follow the talker by the men holding him. These two are real strong arms — Oz is a big man and being whisked away is a fair chore.

"Vait," the talker suddenly says, and they all stop. "Vhat is that?"

His light is on a figure at the end of the bar. A gun appears in his raised hand and points at it.

"Looks like some kinda dummy," one of the strong arms says. "It's a freakin' manikin with sunglasses." He's got an accent, too; Italian, Oz thinks.

"Vhat the hell? Old man manikin sitting at bar?" the talker says.

One of the holders elbows Oz. "The sun glasses — what's that about?"

Oz says, "It's just a fun thing." He hopes his old blind friend Cecil "See-Saw" Esau stays still, just like he's doing now. "You know, we like to have fun in my bar — like you guys are having fun with me right now. And like me and your ol' ladies — we like to have fun, too."

"Smart ass!" one of the strong arms says and hits him on the side of the face with something hard.

"
Ugh!
" Oz shakes it off. Probably hit with the barrel of a gun, but he can't see it. He says, "I guarantee you, I'm going to have a whole buncha fun with
you
later."

"There ain't going to be no fun for you, later or ever again, pops."

"Ve go," the talker says and leads them around the end of the bar and into the back storeroom.

The two strong arms shove Oz to the far end of the small room. He stumbles and falls against the shelving and then to the floor. Canned goods, bottles and other supplies pummel the old Greek and spill out onto the bare concrete. He sits up, his head spinning, but he's prepared to take more. They close the door and turn on the light. Only two of them are in the room now. The other guy must be out watching the doors.

Oz hopes See-Saw remains motionless, playing the manikin part these dumb assholes gave him.

The two in the room are wearing black knit caps and have them pulled down to where only their eyes are exposed. The collars of their black, light-weight jackets are up, and they're wearing gloves — with silenced guns in their hands. Oz thinks he might recognize one of the men.

"What's this about, boys?" Oz says. "You fellas get a flat beer from me sometime or something? No problem. I'll refund your money. It
is
about money, right? Here, help me up, and I'll open the safe for you."

He reaches out for a hand, ready for when one of these bastards takes it — he'll yank the prick into the wall and go for his gun. Fool-hardy as it might seem, Oz isn't about to get robbed without one hell of a fight. He'd rather die first.

They just stare at him, giving him a good view down the suppressed barrels of their small caliber handguns. Compact pistols — .22 caliber Tomcats or Bobcat .32s — he thinks. Damn Italians really like their Berettas. No wait...the Russian; his pistol isn't a Beretta.

"That a Makarov?" Oz asks.

The Russian doesn't reply.

Remembering how Ruskies are always proud of their fatherland's weapons, Oz says, "I'm not saying Makarov's are real pieces of shit, or anything, but they'll make your hand smell like you've been squeezing wet turds."

The guy's face wrenches in obvious annoyance.

"Uh, oh!" Oz tells him. "This isn't
sand-packing-up-my-ass
time is it? Do I get a kiss first?"

"Vhere is E Z Knight?" the talker asks.

"He-she Nice? Who the hell's that? Never heard of the bum."

"Bull-shit!"

"Bullshit? What bullshit? I'm telling you the truth."

The talker nods to his partner.

The other man approaches, grabs a large can of beans and throws it hard.

Oz doesn't have a chance to catch it in his hand, the guy's too close. He catches it on top of his head just above the hairline.

Man, it hurts!
He nearly blacks out from the pain.

"Try again," the talker says.

The can thrower is loading a gunny sack with smaller cans.

"I told you, I don't know no He-she Nice!"

"E Z Knight!"

"Oh...,
E Z Knight
. Why didn't you say so?" Oz smiles. "I don't know him neither."

The can thrower swings his gunny sack, and Oz raises his left arm to block it. He figures since he's right handed, if he lives through this, he might still be able to pour coffee and sign checks.

The can-filled sack strikes his left forearm and knocks it down. Before he has a chance to block a second strike, Can Man swings it again. It smashes into the left side of his face and shoulder. It hurts even more than the first can.

Oz takes a deep breath and somehow shakes it off. He knows he should just keep his mouth shut — but he can't resist a little bravado. "Come on, little Suzie! Can't you do better than that?"

The guy swings it again, and again.

God it hurts — he's killing me!
Oz is seeing stars, and the room is growing dark.

"You know E Z Knight yet?" the talker asks. His voice sounds like it's coming from the end of a long tunnel.

A Ruskie for sure
, Oz realizes. It's a mild Russian accent, but the dialect had thrown him off — Southern Russian. Oz has been all over the world before he came to California. In his thirty-five years as a merchant marine, he's been acquainted with about every nationality and has heard most of their dialects. But there is something a bit strange about this particular Russian.

A boot comes out of nowhere as Can Man kicks him in the teeth. He loses a couple of pearly whites from that blow.

Oz spits blood, then pants out, "Come on guys. Let me give you the money, and you can be on your way, no questions asked."

He reaches out again, this time with his unbroken right arm, hoping they'll let him go to the safe in the opposite corner. Under a dish towel on top of the safe is a .454 Casull Taurus Raging Bull with over eight inches of barrel that'll throw their hair back — put those little plinkers, even the 9mm Makarov, to shame.

His hand still extended, he lies to them, "It's been a great day. I'll bet I have better than ten thousand in there."
Probably more like $350
.

Can Man strikes his outstretched arm with the sack.

Damn!
He should have known better. Now he has two bad arms.

Doesn't matter
, he realizes,
these guys are going to kill me even if I do give them what they want.

Then the door opens and the third guy pushes through, his gun up to See-Saw's chin.

The old blind man's voice is tiny and hoarse. "Don't hurt him. Please don't hurt him, anymore."

"Look here, Karl," the third guy says. "The old manikin is alive. Blind, but alive."

"Stupid bastard," Karl the Russian talker says. "No names."

"What does it matter?" the guy with a gun to See-Saw asks. Sounds Italian like the first wop.

Oz pleads with them, "Come on, guys. Don't lean on ol' See-Saw. He can't hurt you. Hell, he can't even see to ID you. Do what you must to me, but let See-Saw go."

"Huh-huh," the one holding the old man says, "See-Saw — huh-huh!" He sounds a bit like that Bevis from the cartoon on TV — or is that Butt-head?

Karl the Russian says, "Put bullet in old man's brain if next words come out dip-shit Greek not telling vhere Knight is." He turns to Oz. "Vell?"

Oz is fighting unconsciousness. He needs more time. But these assholes aren't going to give it to him. They're very likely to follow through on this threat and go looking for someone else to get the information from — beat up and murder. His mind is foggy. How can he keep See-Saw and himself alive and still screw these guys up? He remembers that E Z is out of town, and won't be back until at least tomorrow.

Finally, he gives in. "E Z's got a boat. He sleeps on it. It's docked at Slip 12, the Atlantis pier, Slip 12."

"'Atta boy!" Karl the Russian talker says, then nods to Butt-head. Karl the Russian and Can Man leave the room.

Butt-head shoves See-Saw into a mattress standing against the side wall, and he levels his gun. The old blind man tumbles to the floor, and the mattress falls across him as the gun spits out three deadened reports.

"You, son-of-a-bitch!" Oz says, trying to stand, but his arms are worthless, and he falls back against the shelves of canned goods. The gun barrel now points at him.

One soft pop
.

Wet, everything is wet —
his face, his head.

"Ooh-hoo!" Oz hears Butt-head say, this time the voice coming from way down deep at the end of that tunnel and it fades fast. "His freakin' head blew up. Man, ain't that sumpin', his head exploded — his brains splattered everywhere!"

Before he passes out, Oz takes a final breath...and he has an undeniable urge to order a
pizza
.

Tomato paste
?