KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set (34 page)

Chapter 7

The Long and Winding Road

While I waited
for Jason and his driver to leave in his limo, I called a couple of old friends to enlist their help. The first call to a buddy from my old unit went to voicemail, so I left a message asking him to return my call.

I then called Booker Radcliff, a.k.a. Booger Rat, former Marine EOD — Explosive Ordinance Disposal. I got through.

"Acme Crematorium. You kill 'em and we'll grill 'em," he answered.

"It's me," I said. I like to kind of test the waters when I call someone I haven't spoken to for a while — see if they recognize my voice, see how impatient they are. And if they don't recognize it as me, I like to find out who they
think
is calling, instead. Sometimes, that can get real interesting.

It had been months, but Booger knew me right off. "E Z? Oh, Man! E Z Knight!"

"How are you ol' buddy?"

"Ah, E Z! It's great to hear your voice, man. I'm okay. Good — you know. How 'bout you, man?"

Booger's a good guy, he just gets mixed up in things he shouldn't. He's done some time since he's been out of the Corps — mostly drug stuff, a little burglary. But I do my best to forget all that, because he's a good-hearted guy.  And, because he saved my life in Afghanistan — and that's something I'll never forget.

"I need a little help, Booger — your expertise. Can you meet me at the marina?"

"Uh, yeah...sure. I've got a couple of guys looking for me, right now — and, you know: that sounds like a great idea."

Booger is always outspoken and honest to a fault. Not necessarily a good thing for his own preservation when he gets involved with some of the things he does. But he's never been a rat, like his nickname implies, and I've always been able to trust him. He'd rather be impaled on a sail mast and have his fingernails pulled out than to give up a fellow Marine.

"You need a little money, Booger?"

"Ah...no man, I can handle it...well — you ain't got a couple hundred lyin' around not doin' anything, do you?"

"Sure, Booger," I told him. "And there could be a lot more. Jason Ryder needs our help."

"No shit? JR? I haven't seen him in years — except on the ol' silver screen."

"Can you get up here quick?"

"Yeah, I'd better. If I don't, I might not be gettin' anyplace but six feet under."

I hoped he was joking. But, knowing Booger, he wasn't.

"Remember where my boat is?"

"Yeah. Smokey's Marina...that pier that starts with "A".

"Atlantis, Slip 21. If I'm not there, I'll leave word with Smokey at the Marina office."

"Okay, E Z! Man...it'll be good to see you," he said, laughter in his voice. Then he got serious and quiet as if someone he didn't care to see was approaching. "Oh, shit! Gotta go. See you in 'bout two — or three hours."

That's Booger Rat for you.

I hung up and glanced at the young Russian woman, still waiting in her car.

I'd figured Zoya would follow Jason and his chauffer, and I wondered what she was up to.

She smiled at me as I pulled out, and for some reason, I can't say why, I decided to go farther east, into the mountains. Maybe I was subconsciously hoping she'd follow me. The road east of here had more curves than a Play-Bunny convention.

In my rearview mirror, I saw Zoya in the Porsche hit the blacktop behind me.
Here she comes!

By third gear, heading up Ortega Highway 74 toward Lake Elsinore, she was right up my ass. I really hated being tailgated — it didn't matter that it was by a young Russian beauty in a Porsche.

*  *  *

"Hold on," I tell Jazzy Brass, not in the mood to play cat and mouse on a winding mountain road. I strap her in with the seatbelt, again.

This time, I bypass the old eight-track and punch the CD player instead. One of my preloaded disks begins playing a song that seems very appropriate: The Eagles
Hotel California.
This has been a confusing day, to say the least.

Just as the traffic clears in the oncoming lane, Zoya makes a bid to pass, and I jam my foot to the floor. At 6,000 rpms, I yank the shifter back to fourth gear and move away from the little Porsche.

Maybe she just wants to pull alongside. Maybe she just wants to give me a signal.  Maybe she wants to talk. I don't care right now. I'm not in the mood. I don't like being toyed with even by a beautiful young woman. Being employed by Judge Hammer doesn't win her any points with me either.

The Porsche will take my old Shelby, I know that. Although I have the German machine in cubic inches and it outweighs my muscle car by at least twenty-five percent, it's got me in horsepower. With over 550 HP, the Porsche has a top speed of nearly 200 mph, and can do 0-60 in three seconds and some change — twice as quick as my Shelby. And with a modern Porsche suspension system versus the old Shelby's, if I am to stave off her advances and stay ahead of her sports car, I'll have to do it by driving skill alone.

On a section of straight road we're going 110 mph, and she's pulling alongside. But the curves are coming up, steep cliffs along a narrow right shoulder.

She has just enough time to give me a smile before we have to let up on the gas and brake lightly. She shows her inexperience and brakes too hard. I feather the brake, downshift and slide into the curve, taking over the inside — the oncoming lane side. Wary of traffic, I watch as the road appears 150 feet in front of me along the inside embankment. There will be little time or room to jerk back into the right lane if I meet a car or motorcycle head-on.

I'm off the brake and into the accelerator before I come out of the curve, and I take over the right-side lane before she has a chance to recover and advance on me. I have just enough time to glance to Jazzy Brass.

She's okay. She's smiling again. She glances back as if to say:
Lighten up — have some fun!

"You animal!" I tell her and chuckle.

We're into some tight curves now — where the little Porsche should really shine — and I bring the Shelby down into second. I get a good look ahead and see no traffic. If no one pulls out from a side road, we should be good for the next mile or so.

Zoya's right up my ass again as we negotiate the series of S curves, each one too sharp and too short for her to take the lead. I'm shifting from second to third and then back down.

The phone rings over my stock stereo speakers. I'd added Blue-Tooth to my classic muscle car a couple months ago so that I can talk hands-free. I'm hoping it's Smokey — that she might apologize for not calling sooner and have a great excuse.  I don't know why I bother. It's not like we've ever been intimate, or we're committed to each other. Maybe the reason I want her so badly is that we haven't gone to bed, yet. She's a lovely woman — but I've been with a lot of lovely women before. When I quit lying to myself, I realize it's because she's the type of woman I can see myself spending the rest of my life with. She's the closest thing I've seen to my lovely murdered wife, Jolene.

I'm somewhat disappointed realizing it's probably either Jason calling back or my friend Beautiful Johnson returning my earlier call.

I push the answer button. I'm
really
disappointed.

It's Judge Hammer. "E Z, you're hard to get a hold of! Why don't you answer your phone?"

"You know why. I don't want to talk to you."

"You'll want to now," he says. "It's a matter of life and death — yours."

"I know all about it. Some kidnappers want me to deliver ransom money, and some dumb goomba wannabes want me dead. I can handle them."

"Not even that simple. You have two, possibly three of the top assassins in the world in a race to track you down — somebody's put a huge price on your head and put the contract up for grabs. I don't know who yet, but I'll find out. And it's still unclear exactly who these assassins are at this point."

I negotiate a tight right turn as the Judge continues, "First of all, the kidnappers aren't so interested in
ransom
money. They want to collect on a contract — your head for ten million dollars."

I slow down to around fifty-five and let Zoya drive by. "What?"

"And the
mobsters
? They're being led by a Russian. It's not clear who, but he's not just another flunky. Word is that he does hits for the Russian Mafia. And he's one of the highest paid assassins in the world. That fits the profile of only a few contractors."

"
Hmph
! Not impressed, so far."

"What if I told you I believe the guy who has Jason's daughter is even more dangerous?"

"Still, not impressed, but I'm listening."

"My intel is that he's former US Special Forces, possibly Green Beret."

"You haven't even given me a chill, yet, Judge. That old woman you've had watching over me for the past few months gave me a bigger shiver when she climbed out of the water after her boat blew up this morning." An image of Ol' Corky with her nipples sticking through her blouse like "brass candlestick holders" made me shiver again.

"Good! Esmeralda's alive, then? She hasn't checked in — I was worried."

"Do you have any possibles on the green beanie?"

He doesn't respond right away. "I should wait until we're sure, but...the name Ramón Peña has popped up."

That name makes me cringe. Peña's very good at what he does — killing. I'd worked with him before and have some unfinished personal business that would be nice to
terminate
and bury — about six feet deep.

I pretend the name hasn't fazed me. "Not that it's any of my concern, especially since I'm not playing the handyman, hired-killer game anymore, but your whole personnel focus seems to have shifted in a strange direction."

"The women? I've found women are especially good for much of the detail work. I mostly use them for surveillance and deliveries. But they're all quite good in about any role I have for them."

I'm eyeing the little Porsche in front of me. Zoya has slowed down as well, and she's waving for me to try and pass her.

"Uh-huh," I say. "I'm about to give one of them a driving lesson."

"Don't be surprised if she gives you one. You know she's absolutely enamored with you."

"Me? How? She doesn't even know me."

"I've told her and the others all about you. They've seen most of your file. I use your jobs and accomplishments as a training guide — the level of competency they should aspire to reach." He pauses, and I'm about to hang up, growing tired of our chit-chat. Then he says, "E Z, I know we had our disagreements, a couple of falling outs, but you've always been my favorite. You have a great head on your shoulders and your judgment is always spot on. You do a job clean, and get away from it without leaving anything behind."

"Did," I say. "I did."

"Okay. I won't try to enlist you back into the team this time, E Z. I'm trying to save your life, so listen to me."

"What's in it for you? It can't be money — you've got more than you can spend over a hundred lifetimes."

"E Z, you know what I want. I want to make a difference. I want to help people. And I want you alive so that one day, when your head
is
right, you can come back to the team and do some important work again."

"What you want is to control and play people, Judge. Sure, you have that passionate, caring piece of gristle in place of a heart, buried somewhere deep in your chest, but it's ruled by a mind with an even stronger desire to control everyone — put the world in order, the way you want it to be. That doesn't work for everyone, Judge.

"I was with you in the start," I tell him. "But I realized vigilante work has no place in a society with a working judicial system. Nobody should be both judge and jury — be able to have anyone else killed without a trial."

"Regardless," the Judge says, "then maybe it's for old time's sake."

"Maybe it's guilt."

"Guilt?" He actually sounds taken aback.

"Yeah, that doesn't even register in your vigilante brain, does it? Killing
suspected
bad guys for the greater good.
Guilt
. Learn the word. If it wasn't for working for you — if it wasn't
because
of you — my wife would still be alive, and I'd have a nine-to-five in some engineering firm someplace. And I wouldn't have — " I mock him, " — 
two, possibly three of the top assassins in the world
trying to kill me!"

"Say what you will, E Z, and I'll listen. But you listen to me now. The world needs all its good people; people like you who give a shit and will help the underdog when no one else can or cares to. You're good people, E Z." A pause, and I'm sure from experience what's coming. "And I do have a little job coming up in a couple of months that will help
you
— make you rich beyond your wildest...."

I hang up.
What a pompous ass!