After turning off the county road, Smitty put the truck in park and shut off the engine. He glanced over at the twinkling lights of the sprawling Cosmic Order encampment, which was bathed in a glow of moonlight, about a hundred yards in the distance.
Bo studied the site intently from the passenger seat, eyes narrowed, as if coming up with a plan. “So, how we wanna do this thing?”
“We’re not going to do it.” Smitty looked down at the backpack full of heroin in his lap. “I’m going to do this myself.”
Bo looked somewhere between pissed and disappointed. “Then what the hell am I here for?”
Smitty didn’t really have an answer. The truth of the matter was he felt that if they were going to do something this shady, then he wanted to do it on his own. After all, he was the boss, and the boss makes the hard calls. Practically speaking though, Bo might come in handy if there was trouble. Of course, he was infamous for generating a lot of it on his own. Time for a lie.
“See here now, you’re a big ol’ dude. Likely to get spotted. Whereas I can sneak in there undetected.” Before Bo could argue, Smitty added, “Plus I need a wheelman. Once I plant the dope, there’s a good chance we’ll have to hightail it out.”
After a moment of pondering, Bo turned back again, this time looking less agitated. “Where do I drop you off?”
Smitty studied the encampment where portable light towers illuminated the interior. But he noticed that the periphery was scantily lit. Between the cover provided by the mesquite brush, and the mechanical buzz of a few electric generators to mask his footsteps, he felt confident he could make a stealthy approach.
“Okay, Bo, pull up by that old frac pit to the east of the camp. There’s a big berm where you can park and won’t be seen.”
Bo nodded in approval of their hideout. “Sure you can sneak in without getting busted?”
Great question. But Smitty knew he needed to keep Bo on board, lest he doubt the plan and want to come along. “Ah, hell, you know how them hippies are.” He shot a grin. “Ones who ain’t already asleep are probably stoned or tripping on acid. Hell, they see me strolling through camp, they’re liable to think I’m the Mad Hatter or an Oompa Loompa. Won’t pay me much mind.”
Bo roared with laughter and slapped his knee. “Stupid hippies.”
Smitty doubted Bo even got either the Alice in Wonderland or Willy Wonka references, but he could always count on him for a good laugh at the protesters’ expense. With buy-in from his partner, it was time to psych himself up. While he hated the idea of framing anyone, even if it would all be swept under the rug, there was a part of Smitty that felt like he was doing a good deed by ridding the Texas Panhandle of the Austin interlopers, ecoterrorists or not.
Hardworking men and women around here needed the jobs that the oil industry provided them. Roughnecks, roustabouts, and even old dozer drivers like him had bills to pay. All the way down to the damn taco truck driver, lives depended on rigs running and the compressor stations and pipelines in full operation. But knowing that didn’t remedy the lump in his throat.
Deep down, Smitty knew there was a good chance that he could ruin some lives if things didn’t go according to the sheriff’s plan. And one of those lives may very well be his own.
As Smitty snuck up around the backside of the encampment, he picked his approach carefully. It was dark, quiet, and peaceful as he tiptoed through the snow. The big question was where to stash the herion so it wouldn’t be detected before the sheriff’s raid. It had to be obvious enough to be found by a deputy, but not so blatant it would raise suspicion from a passerby.
Creeping closer for a better view, Smitty took cover behind a clump of mesquite, careful to keep quiet and stay low. He bent to a knee behind some brush, about twenty yards from the camp perimeter, did another sweep, and found a good spot. An Igloo cooler that was half-jutting out from beneath a nearby tent would allow easy access and a ready escape. He had just eased the backpack of dope off his shoulder when he felt the press of cold steel on the nape of his neck.
“Easy there, friend.” Smitty eased his hands up. “I’m not armed.” It wasn’t a lie. Right before departing the truck, he’d stowed his Cabot Diablo 1911 pistol under the front seat. “Let me explain why I’m here,” he continued. “Think we can work something out.”
That was one of those things people just said because it sounds good and bought a little time.
In a quiet but commanding voice the gunman ordered, “Hand over that bag. Nice and slow.”
Smitty dropped the backpack in the snow, careful not to make any sudden moves. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guy grab the backpack and unzip it. As he rummaged around, a lightbulb went off in Smitty’s head. His only way out of this crime was to confess to a lesser one.
“Look, I wasn’t forcing nothing on no one. Just have the stuff if anybody wants it, that’s all.”
The guy pulled the gun away, circled around, and stared at Smitty for a few seconds. “You work for Vicky Kaiser, right?”
Dressed in Marmot and Black Diamond cold weather gear, the gunman looked better suited for the Iditarod than a picket line. He had a bushy brown beard, barrel chest, and wide shoulders. And it was also obvious that the dude had some military training given the way he handled his gun, and how he’d snuck up without making a sound.
Big question was where he had received that training and why was he using it out there.
Smitty also noticed that the guy had a darker tinge to his skin and spoke with a slight French inflection. He knew it from having worked with French Canadians doing seismic work in North Dakota a few years back. He could even do a passable impression with just the right amount of booze.
Wanting to build on the confusion of the moment, Smitty doubled down with a little misdirection to take the focus off himself. “Look here, buddy, it was your people that came to us. Not the other way around.”
“What people?” Frenchy looked stumped. “Who came to you?”
“A man and a woman.” Smitty shrugged. “Didn’t give any names. Married couple, I think. You got any of those around here? Ain’t no biggie, man. Just some folks looking to party.”
Frenchy didn’t answer.
Smitty pointed at the backpack. “Told one of my ranch hands they were looking for something a little harder than what you got at the camp.” The overpowering stank of some skunky weed wafting from the camp helped his creativity. “Ain’t no judgment on my end.”
“Your employee is wrong.” Frenchy tossed a strap over his shoulder. “No one from here.”
“Yeah, but they told my guy they were looking to score. That’s why I came. Somebody’s gonna be real . . . disappointed if they don’t get what they asked for.”
Frenchy glanced back at the camp, as if looking for the culprits. “Just stay the hell away or I’ll call the law.”
Smitty resisted a chuckle. If Frenchy only knew about the law around there, he wouldn’t be making any threats. They’d be packing their asses up and heading back to Austin before they ended up in a West Texas gulag run by Sheriff Crowley.
“Don’t want no trouble.” Smitty feigned worry. “Just give me my bag and we’re all good.”
Frenchy stood firm. “Don’t worry, I’ll dispose of it.”
Smitty could already feel Bo’s wrath for having botched the operation. “Uh . . . that ain’t exactly mine to give away.”
“Time to go.” Frenchy raised the barrel and aimed it at Smitty’s head. “Am I not clear?”
Smitty didn’t answer, just pivoted on a dime, took off in a sprint, and ducked into the brush. While he may have had reservations about Cosmic Order and their connection to violence, this encounter had him rethinking a few things. Between the explosions, bellicosity, and tactical Frenchy packing a submachine gun, something about this group sure as hell didn’t add up.