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Maple exercised diligently at least three times a day, doing small sets that incrementally grew larger. When he was wounded, the buds of spring were still in high gear. Now that season was past and the heat of summer was setting in. The hot weather seemed medicinal, lifting his battered spirits and massaging his torn shoulder.
In the two months since being shot, Maple had also come to more fully appreciate Stickman’s loyalty. Rejecting Rouhani’s treacherous plot to collect the reward came as no surprise. Money, in and of itself, had never been a priority for either of them. But the risks Stickman unflinchingly took, his careful nursing, and his patient handling of life’s nuts and bolts while Maple healed, all combined to strengthen their bond. Not to be forgotten was the exhilaration of their first firefight, when nothing less than survival hung in backing each other. There was even something to be said for Stickman’s amusing discomfort while delivering the rent money. Only briefly did Maple’s mood darken at the still-clear memory of the instant of fear in the patrolman’s eyes before he died.
One morning without ceremony Maple unpacked a rocket launcher, cleaned it and spent much of the day carrying it about. He simulated movements needed for firing, broke it down and reassembled it, repacked it and unpacked it and repacked it again. Everything felt good as he relived raining RPGs on the Russian Embassy, torching the patrol cars at their rental house near Point of Rocks, blowing away the bank truck with its confetti of hundred dollar bills. He declared himself ready. Stickman was not convinced, but calculated that could be true by the time they finished preparations for their next strike and hooked up with Assiri.
Using the coded system that worked well in coordinating the attack on the Mall of America, a time and place to meet was set. With Maple suffering cabin fever, Stickman suggested driving west of Pittsburgh to call Assiri from an interstate pay phone. Assiri confirmed getting the meeting information and said the needed crew was ready. It went without saying that the mission would be risky.
With some trepidation they had packed the rocket launchers and some other weapons in the tool box. On the return trip they searched back roads, eventually locating a remote area where approaching traffic could be seen nearly a mile out. They quickly test-fired the weapons and sighted them in for accuracy. Maple happily fired the rocket launchers last.
A few days later, they were loading duffle bags and fishing gear in the F-150 when Cornell walked out of his trailer, bound for work.
“Looks like you’ll be gone fishing a few days,” he called.
“That’s the plan,” Maple answered.
“I’ll keep an eye on things for you. Have a good trip.”
Stickman and Maple again headed west. A long day’s drive took them to Cahokia Mounds State Historic Site in Collinsville, Illinois, just east of St. Louis. More than one hundred mounds dot the twenty-two hundred acres that is believed to be what remains of the most sophisticated native civilization north of Mexico. After inhabiting the area for hundreds of years, the natives mysteriously left, or disappeared, about 1400 A.D. One theory is that they were victims of a massive flood. There won’t be much mystery about the next catastrophic event in this area, Stickman thought as they pulled into the Interpretive Center parking lot. It was nearly closing time and Assiri and his men, having enjoyed their down-time as tourists, were just leaving the building.
During brief introductions, Stickman was impressed by the seven men Assiri had gathered. In age from mid-twenties to forty, they were to a man in at least decent condition. Clearly, Assiri, too, had been no stranger to working out. But there was much more. This bunch was mature and, perhaps to a fault, had a hard edge, most noticeable in their eyes. It was a quality born of experience and perhaps suffering, sustained or inflicted on others or perhaps both. It made Stickman wonder how Assiri had collected them without drawing attention. And maybe he hadn’t, a bothersome prospect. Unlike the Swale team, there were no virgins here. Even in this unflinching crew one man stood out. He went by the single name of Abu. His size and heavily muscled frame, the curved scar that hooked from cheekbone to nostril, and the maniacally bright dark eyes made him a malicious presence. Stickman was glad the mission would come off the next day, hopefully before a redneck with a phobia for Muslims shared his hysteria with local police.
Five rooms were reserved at a nearby motel. “Let’s gas up on the way. I’ll check us in and Assiri will hand out your keys and give you the room number for Maple and me. We’ll meet there at seven-thirty.”