thirty-two
Brewster Flagg slowly drove the Peterbilt truck down the narrow and bumpy dirt road, parking lights on only, as he followed the texted directions. He should be at the turn-off in just about thirty minutes, if all went well, and it should. Except for that fuck-up with that darkie Quebec cop, it had been pretty smooth. He thought about his cousin Troy, how proud he’d be that Brewster had gotten so close to getting the job done. Just a little more time, and across the border he’d be, and then this truck with the special cargo would get to where it belonged.
DC, Manhattan, Chicago … he really didn’t give a shit. Just as long as it was taken off his hands and parked where it would do the most damage, the most impact. That’s all that counted.
Up ahead a rabbit skittered across the dirt road. So many others out there didn’t know what counted. He remembered a hot day in Arizona where he had been hiking in the lonely desert, just a few hundred yards away from the Mexican border. He had been with two other Tea Party members, guys named Chuck and Robbie. All three of them were wearing surplus Army gear, carrying rucksacks and holstered pistols. They had been patrolling and checking things out, doing the real border security work the fucking government wouldn’t do, and Brewster had gotten tired of the whole thing. His skin was burnt, he was rationing his water as best as he could, and sand and pebbles kept on getting into his boots, so he had to stop every half hour or so to empty them out. A hell of a thing for a grown man to do; no job, welfare benefits cut off, and now, out where the National Guard should be, defending the border.
Then they came across two wetbacks sitting in a little shade underneath some overhanging rocks. Their shoes were dusty and torn, their clothes filthy, and their lips were swollen, cracked. Robbie could speak some of the lingo but Brewster knew what they wanted when they started whispering, “agua, agua, agua,” holding out their empty brown hands.
“Shit,” Brewster had said. “I don’t have any water to spare. Tell the fuckers to go back home.”
Robbie said something to the two young men, and one started jabbering real quick, and Chuck said, “What the fuck is he saying, Robbie?”
“Usual shit, about how he and his buddy here, they just want some water, please, just a bit, their coyote should be here any sec, they got jobs lined up, please, they’re gonna get jobs driving trucks from some—”
That had been that for Brewster. He pulled out his Colt .45, walked up to the first spic, nailed him in the chest, got the second one in the chest, too, as Robbie and Chuck just stood there, frozen in the heat.
Then it was quiet for a second, so quiet he could hear the other two guys breathing, and they started screaming at him, tugging at his arms, pushing him around, and he held up his pistol and said, “Back off, assholes! You heard what that shithead said! He and his buddy were gonna get driving jobs, jobs that belong to me and other real Americans.”
“Fuck it, Brewster, you capped those two without even thinking,” Robbie yelled, his face bright red.
“Screw you, I thought it through well enough! Way I see it, I just saved two guys from Arizona or New Mexico from getting fired ’cause these guys aren’t gonna be there to steal their jobs. Besides, they were dying of thirst anyway. Were you gonna give up your water to those beaners? Were you?”
Robbie still looked pretty pissed, but Chuck stepped in and said, “Yeah, maybe Brewster’s right. Maybe they were gonna croak anyway. Shit, let’s head back, all right? Forget the whole thing happened.”
A good plan, but about thirty minutes later, they came across another wetback, better dressed than the other guys, an AK-47 hanging off his back, and Robbie said, “Shit, he must be the coyote for those two back there,” and when he started jabbering and unslinging his AK-47, Brewster didn’t hesitate, and shot him down.
It was then a real long walk back to where Chuck’s pickup truck was parked off a dirt access road, made even longer since neither Chuck nor Robbie said another word to Brewster. A week later, Brewster was out of the local Tea Party—“just consider yourself freakin’ lucky we’re not turning you into the sheriff” one of the leaders had said—and that had been that.
So now he peered ahead through the darkness, his Colt .45 right next to him, thinking of what he was doing, of his cousin Troy, knowing Troy would have approved of what he had done back there in the Arizona desert.
Desperate times called for desperate measures, and these times were about as desperate as one could imagine.
The five of them drove north in a dark brown Chevrolet Suburban, with a few detours and turnarounds to ensure they weren’t being followed. Nat Cooper was driving, with Luke Munce next to him. There were a couple of folded-over maps resting next to Nat, but Duncan knew his driver didn’t need any such assistance. Through years of snowmobiling, hunting, and driving on his ATV, Nat knew his way around this part of the county better than any man he knew. In the Suburban’s middle seat, Duncan was on the left, his brother was on the right, and Zach was in the middle, keeping quiet. Luke was talking to his girlfriend on his cellphone up forward when he frowned and put the phone away.
“That’s it, guys,” he said. “We’re officially in the dark zone.”
Zach asked, “What’s the dark zone?”
“No cellphone coverage, no Wi-Fi, even GPS has fits up here,” Duncan said. “We are in terra incognita, beyond the pale. For outsiders who play here, it’s not a good thing. Couple of times last winter, snowmobilers got lost on the trails and they were lucky to make it out alive. They thought all they had to do was dial 911 and the nice folks from Fish & Game would come and rescue them. But we’re not going to get lost tonight, are we, Nat.”
Nat laughed and turned the Suburban to the left, down yet another unmarked dirt road. “Unless I got dropped on my head last night and Dora forgot to tell me, nope, we’re not going to get lost tonight.”
A few more miles passed as a nearly full moon rose to the east. The road dipped and became muddy as they traversed a swamp, and in the bright moonlight, three moose were seen on the right, about a foot deep into the muddy water, gently chewing water plants. Luke said, “Lots of good meat out there.”
Cameron said, “Yeah, but no place to put it.”
Duncan spoke up. “That’s enough talk about hunting out of season. You know how I don’t like lawbreakers.”
Even Zach joined in the laughter, and Nat slowed the Suburban down, lowered his window, took a flashlight and illuminated a birch tree trunk on the left, where an aluminum pie plate had been nailed. “That there’s the access road to the Byron hunting camp, our rendezvous point if things go bad. So remember the pie plate.”
Duncan said, “The plate come from Dora?”
“No, it didn’t,” Nat said.
Duncan reached over, gently tapped Nat on the shoulder. “Thought maybe somebody who ate one of Dora’s pies was so happy that he nailed the pie plate in her honor.”
Cameron snorted. “Christ, stop sucking up to him already. Hire her on as a pastry chef or something, will you?”
Nat resumed driving, took a left, a right, and then a long stretch where the road widened into a thin pasture. He pulled the Suburban over to the left and then made a three-point turn, so it was now facing the direction from which they came. Nat switched off the engine and announced, “Keys are in the ignition, fellas, if we need to leave in a hurry and I’m otherwise engaged.”
Nobody said anything. Duncan listened to the peepers, and then the hoot-hoot-hoot of a night owl out on the hunt. In the dim light from the rising moon they waited, until Duncan said, “Gentlemen, now’s the time when we start earning our pay. Let’s get to it.”
The young lady named Sherry was driving the Jeep Cherokee along the back roads, going nice and slow, peering ahead as she caught the taillights of the target truck in front of them. Francois sat up front with her, while Michael and the other two Iron Steeds members—Johnny and Phil—sat in the back, jammed in, shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek, firearm to firearm. Too bad if they didn’t like it, because that’s the way it was going to be, but Francois didn’t worry about that; he was too busy admiring the young lady’s driving skills. Even though night had fallen, she was driving on the narrow dirt road with no headlights or parking lights, just depending on the moonlight to guide the way.
Earlier she had said, “The guy up there, I don’t know who he is or where he’s from, but he doesn’t know these roads. I do. So he’s going slow, he’s being cautious, and all I have to do is hang back and watch his taillights, make sure I don’t do anything to draw his attention. I can follow him for dozens of klicks like this, because the deeper he goes in, the slower he goes.”
Francois still couldn’t believe she was getting away with it as the night went on. She saw a flare of taillights ahead and she said, “Damn, he’s stopped. Hold on.” She quickly braked and the Cherokee slid to a stop. They waited, the engine gently idling. Francois held his breath. From behind him Michael said, “Boss, why the fuck are we dicking around like this? Why don’t we just drive up there now and take the fucking thing?”
He paused, and said, “For one thing, on this narrow a road, even one pissed off driver—if he’s alone—can bottle us up and cause us some damage before we nail him. Another thing is, speaking of narrow, there’s not much room to maneuver around.”
Silence from the rear, and Michael spoke again. “No offense, boss, but that’s bullshit. You want to see this truck cross over into New Hampshire so you can fuck over Duncan Crowley and tell him you’re stealing his precious cargo before wasting him. That’s the real reason, isn’t it.”
Francois said, “Maybe it is, and what’s wrong with that? We sent four guys down to Duncan Crowley, including a nephew of mine, and none of them came back. Word gets out that the Iron Steeds would take such bullshit without doing something in return, Christ, not only would the Hells Angels come stomping back to raise hell in our territory, fucking motorcycle gangs from Uruguay would think we’d be easy to push around. So yeah, Michael, revenge is on the menu tonight. You got a problem with that?”
“Not at all, boss,” Michael said, sarcasm edging his voice.
He was going to say something else to Michael, maybe tell him to try saying that again, with more sincerity in his voice, when Sherry spoke up. “Looks like he’s moving again.”
“Good,” Francois said. “Don’t lose him.”
“I won’t,” she said, shifting the Cherokee into drive. “His taillights are nice and clear.”
“Glad you’re so confident.”
“I am,” she said, her voice inviting and sultry. “Tell you what, if I lose this truck tonight, you can give me a spanking.”
Francois felt something warm and tingling stir in his groin. “Maybe I’ll give you a spanking later, no matter what happens.”
She laughed. “Promises, promises.”
Zach stepped out into the cool night air, listening to peepers cry out in the woods. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and the moonlight, and he was able to find his way around pretty well. The back hatch of the Suburban was popped open—the rear dome light having been disabled—and gear and weapons were distributed to Nat, Luke, and Cameron. Small Maglite flashlights with red lenses were passed out as well, so their night vision would be protected. Zach slid on a Kevlar vest and snapped it shut, and with an apologetic voice, Duncan passed over a 9mm H&K Model MP5.
“When we got your gear over from the B&B, I saw that you had an Uzi,” Duncan said. “Fine weapon, but for events like this, I like everyone to be issued the same thing. If bits of lead start whizzing around, it’s good to know the guy next to you can pass over a full clip if you run out.”
Zach said, “Works for me.” He took two additional 20-round clips and said, “Duncan, if it weren’t for that pitcher’s arm of yours and your bum leg, you could have had one hell of an interesting career in the service of your country.”
Duncan laughed. “You’re joshing me, aren’t you.”
He slung the H&K over his shoulder. “No, I’m not. You’ve got good planning and tactical skills, you know your weapons. As they say, you could have had a heck of a military career, traveling to foreign lands, meeting exotic people … and killing them.”
Nearby Cameron laughed at that, and Zach said, “At least, that’s what I heard.”
Nat and Luke helped each other get loaded up, and Zach stood apart, watching them. They were civilians but in their own way they were pros, and he had to admire them. Zach tried not to think of what darkness was waiting up here, so close to the Canadian border and to ruin. He tried to focus on getting his pension back, his medical coverage, and to have that dishonorable discharge made into something more honorable, but any thoughts of honor tonight were making him nauseous.
He was pleased when Duncan provided an interruption, when he glanced at his watch. “Still got plenty of time. What do you think, Cam?”
Cameron said, “Nat, Luke, and Zach can stay back here, provide perimeter security. Let’s say you and me, we start walking up to the rendezvous point.”
Duncan said, “All right, I guess we can do that. Zach, you okay with staying with the other two guys?”
Zach shifted the weight of the semiautomatic rifle on his back. “Like the man said, I was born ready.”
Duncan said, “I don’t know, the thought of you in diapers and carrying a pistol just freaks me out.”
In the rear of a NH State Police cruiser, Tanya Gibbs kept her own counsel as the vehicle roared up Interstate 93, leading the way with its flashing blue lights on but with siren off. The road was so empty tonight that a siren wasn’t needed, but empty was a relative term. Behind the speeding cruiser was a small convoy of other State Police SUVs, as well as several cruisers from the Washington County Sheriff’s Department and her own government car, being operated by Henry Wolfe. Up forward a State Police sergeant was driving, while Carl worked the radio microphone and cellphone. As much as she thought he was a tortured soul—his wife must have the patience of a saint—she also had to admire his tactical and communications skills. Despite being tossed a near-impossible task, he was making it work.
He put the radio microphone down and swiveled to talk to her. “We need a staging area up there, near that Hyro-Quebec right-of-way, and it looks like we got it. A hunting camp is nearby, owned by the Byron family. Dispatch is trying to contact them but no one’s answering the phone. My feeling is, we go to the camp, appropriate it, and then apologize later. Sound all right to you?”
“Sounds fine,” Tanya said. “What’s our ETA?”
“We’re going to be off paved roads in about thirty minutes. Figure another half hour after that.”
“Real wilderness, then.”
Carl said, “You have no idea. In fact, just so you know, we’re going to be losing all cellphone coverage in a few minutes, including texting and whatnot. No coverage this far north. So if you need to contact your witch doctor or financial adviser, now’s the time to do it.”
Tanya said, “Thanks for the suggestion.” Which was funny, for she really did mean it. She took out her BlackBerry and texted a message to her boss, Region One Administrator Gordon Simpson:
Once the message was completed, Tanya typed in Gordie’s e-mail address, carefully leaving one letter out of the address line. That way, the message would never be delivered; it would bounce back to her own device. Whatever inquiry might take place later, she could rightfully claim that in the heat and excitement of the moment, she had misspelled Gordie’s email address.
For you, Emily, for you, she thought.
As a follow-up to the text, she also dialed his direct number, and at this hour of the night—as expected—it went straight to voicemail. “Gordon, this is Tanya Gibbs,” she said. “Just wanted to ensure you got my text regarding—” With that, she whistled and hissed into the phone, then clicked off the connection.
Carl watched her actions with mild amusement. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Just exercising due diligence,” she said.
“Sounds like you’re trying to confuse your boss.”
“If you knew my boss,” she said, “you’d know it wouldn’t take much.”
In the quiet of the night, and in the dim light from the red-lensed flashlights, Duncan walked with his brother north, only a few yards now from the Canadian border. They both had on their rural battle-rattle gear, with H&Ks hanging off their backs, and amid the cool breeze and night sounds, Duncan felt at peace, even though he was prepared for the night to descend into chaos and gunfire. But this wasn’t the first time he had been put in such a position, and being here again was comforting. It was like everything for the past twenty years had been leading up to this last moment, the last big deal of his oddball criminal career.
He said, “Cameron, I want to apologize for keeping you out of the loop for so long.”
His brother said, “Hell of a time to be bringing that up.”
“It’s been on my mind.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
They strolled along on the narrow but well-built road in the darkness, the red beams from their flashlights illuminating the way. Years ago Hydro-Quebec, the enormous electric utility for that province, had planned a new series of transmission lines to come through this part of northern New England. This area of land had been purchased as a right-of-way for the eventual construction, and roads had been built to handle the trucks and other heavy equipment from Quebec to New Hampshire. But lawsuits, environmental pressures, and a collapsing economy had derailed the project, leaving behind some well-maintained roads that Duncan had discreetly used over the years.
Duncan tried again. “It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you, Cam. I trusted you too much. But this deal … it had potentials. If anything, I was afraid that you’d ask too many questions, try to talk me out of it, and that you’d succeed.”
“Hah,” Cameron said. “Have I ever succeeded in talking you out of anything?”
“There was Susan Sheldon back in high school.”
“I knew she had a plan to get knocked up by any boy bright enough to get her out of Turner,” Cameron said. “I was presenting you with facts, not trying to convince you to do anything else.”
Something ahead clattered through the woods at their approach. A coyote, fox, or the ever-elusive Eastern mountain lion.
Duncan said, “All right, leaving that aside, I’ve got something else to spring on you.”
“Go for it.”
Ahead of them was a cleared area, maybe ten feet wide, that stretched off to the left and right as far as one could see.
“This is the last one, Cam. The last score.”
Cameron turned to him, pointing the MagLite on the ground. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning that once we get that truck safely over the border and to where it belongs, I’m done with the life. The criminal life, the illegal life, the life on the edge. I’ve been at it too long. I’ve stretched out my luck as much as I can, and it’s not fair anymore to Karen, the kids, or you. When I told you earlier that this was going to set us up, I meant more than just having a fatter bank account. I meant I intend to be done.”
Cameron stayed quiet for a moment or three. “That’s a hell of a spring you just sprung there, bro.”
“I know it.”
“So what about us, then?”
Duncan said, “This is what I’ve been thinking. I get out of the life, and if you want to keep it up, go for it. Just don’t ask me for advice, or counsel, or to be involved in any way. I want out, Cam. If you want out as well … then I can make it worth your while.”
Cameron said, “Damn it, that’s one hell of a thing to be dumping on me, time like this. Couldn’t it have waited?”
“This container that’s coming across, that’s the key, Cameron. The key to my new life, and your new life, if you want it. That’s why I’m dumping this on you tonight. C’mon, you know we’ve been very, very lucky these years. By keeping a low profile, we’ve kept our heads attached to our shoulders. The time to quit is now, while we’re ahead.”
Again, Cameron seemed to ponder Duncan’s words, and he said, “Can’t say it’s not an attractive proposition, though I would miss the life, that’s for sure. It’s nice to be top dog. But it’d also be nice not to put in the hours, have to look over your shoulder all the time. Thing is, I’ve been thinking about taking some time off. Was wondering when I could tell you. Guess now works.”
“How much time?” Duncan asked.
“Six months, maybe a year.”
Duncan was shocked. “Really? What for?”
“Saw an advertisement in Sky & Telescope magazine. Unpaid internships with the SETI Institute are opening up, and I’m sure I could get in.”
“The what institute?”
“SETI. Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. Out in California. Doing real science, with other guys and gals who have the same interest in space and astronomy. It … it’d be something great, being with people like that, day after day, night after night.”
Duncan said, “This is the night for surprises for the both of us, hunh? Go for it, Cameron. It’ll be the perfect time for it.”
“Maybe so, but you’re forgetting one thing. The Iron Steeds. After the container gets through and payment gets made, you could take out a full-page ad in the Montreal Gazette, saying you and me are going on the straight and narrow. That still won’t make a difference to the Iron Steeds. They’ll want their pound of flesh. Or kilogram of flesh, however they figure it up there.”
“Maybe we could pay them off, set up a truce.”
Cameron gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “Bro, get real. They sent four of their guys down here, and none of them are ever going back. I don’t think the Iron Steeds will step aside for some money, jugs of maple syrup and a card of apology.”
“Like the man says, I’ll make him an offer they can’t refuse.”
Cameron groaned. “Enough with The Godfather references, already.”