Blackout (14 page)

'Marshall's pretty pissed with you for disappearing in the middle of the night,' said O'Brien.

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NINE

Monday, June 8th. Night.

Madge gave Josh a long, lingering kiss on the lips. He took

her in his arms, holding her tight to his chest.

'My shift doesn't end for another two hours,' she said. 'But I needed to see you.'

'Why?' asked Josh.

Madge looked around the drab foyer of the Motel 6. Her uniform was looking tighter today, as if it had shrunk in the wash or she had put on a couple of extra pounds. 'Because some men were snooping around the hotel last night.'

Josh and Kate had stayed the night in the mountains, hiding out with O'Brien and Morant. They had spent an uneasy night at the survivalist base. Josh wasn't at all sure how much he trusted the other men and he didn't think that they trusted him either.

In the morning, he'd said that he'd go back into town to draw up a plan of attack on ^he sheriff's office while O'Brien and Morant would put together some kit.

O'Brien had a red Mustang that he assured them was clean and couldn't be traced by the police. He'd let Kate drive it to drop Josh on the outskirts of town.

Then, as Josh was walking past the motel, Madge had run out to speak to him.

'What kind of men?' asked Josh.

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'Bikers,' replied Madge, steering him back into the motel. 'Here, I'll show you.'

The back office of the Motel 6 was painted battleship grey, and had just one desk, two telephones and a computer screen. On one side of the desk there was a bank of four CCTV screens, each one just twelve inches square, displaying different views of the hotel: they monitored the car park, the foyer, and both of the two corridors along which the rooms were arranged. Only one flaw, Josh realised. There was nobody watching. The cameras would record a crime, but there would be no one there to stop it.

'This happened last night,' said Madge. She sat down at the desk, spooling back the tape until she reached the section she wanted. 23.19 was the time recorded on the screen in tiny white lettering. 'Look,' she said, her finger jabbing against the screen. 'Here.'

Josh leaned forwards, resting his hands on the table and peering into the screen. He could see three men pulling up their bikes in-the parking lot, then walking around to the back of the hotel. They clambered up the fire escape, methodically looking through the back windows built into the rooms. Each man weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds and had a long beard, but they were surprisingly agile, moving swiftly and silently around the building. They looked different from the bikers who had stood up for Madge in the restaurant parking lot: meaner, and fiercer, moving with an almost .military precision. Next, the man who appeared to be the leader of the group walked up to the lobby, breaking its flimsy lock with his bare hands. Once inside, he started rummaging through the registration book, then spent ten minutes sitting in front of the hotel's computer in the reception. At one point he looked up, and the CCTV camera froze, capturing a perfect image of his face. Even obscured by the crash helmet still strapped

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securely to his head, it was easy to make out his main features. He had the thick, strapping skull of a pirate, with deep, dark eyes, bored like pits into the front of his face. His hair was long, wrapped up behind his head in a ponytail, while his beard was a foot long, jet black, and neatly combed. His skin, from what little Josh could see of it between the helmet and the beard, looked as if he had been suffering from acute acne for at least four decades. The moon has a smoother surface than your cheeks, pal, Josh decided.

I've seen him before, thought Josh. I don't know where but I've seen that animal somewhere before.

'What do you think they were looking for?' asked Madge.

The,' answered Josh. 'And they'll be back.'

On the motel computer, he printed out two still frames from the CCTV footage, sliding the pictures into the inside of his shirt. 'Motel 6 aren't going to miss one shot, are they?'

Madge shook her head.

Josh planted a resounding kiss on her lips. 'I love you,' he said.

O'Brien and Morant were already cooking on the fire. The flames were licking around the body of another small animal, and the smell of singed fat and charcoal was already filling the air. 'More crane?' said Josh, looking down.

'Not crane,' said O'Brien. 'No crane around this evening. At least none that we could catch.'

'We don't mind fighting the law, but we do so on a full stomach,' said Morant.

Both men laughed.

Kate was sitting just behind them, her hair tied up behind her neck. She looked across at Josh and smiled. It was just after eight in the evening, and it was already dark.

Josh took the leg of meat that O'Brien had just offered him and sank his teeth into the hot flesh. A dribble of fat

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ran down the side of his chin, and he brushed it away with a handkerchief. It tasted more like wild boar than anything else, but had a sharper, tangier flavour. Don't ask, he reminded himself. If you ask what it is, you'll lose your appetite.

'You guys ready?' he asked, looking across at the two men.

O'Brien and Morant nodded in turn. 'For fighting the cops, there's no time like the present.'

'Let's go through the plan once more,' said Josh. 'We go into town. But first we knock out the FBI agent so that we can use his pass to get us into the Sheriff's office. Once we're inside we look up all the details they have on me, then get the hell out of there.'

O'Brien nodded. 'The bit I like is at the start,' he said. 'Where we knock out the fucking Fed.'

The plan was that Kate would drop them off on the outskirts of town, then drive back to Marshall's to wait for them.

O'Brien made it his business to monitor the movements of every law-enforcement official in the region and prided himself on keeping tabs on all their routines. A Federal agent stopped at the Texaco station two miles outside Boisdale every night not long after midnight, pulling up for coffee and a doughnut. When they'd disposed of the agent they'd proceed into town, using his car.

Now the three men walked in silence: the track was too rough to use a car or a bike. Josh was using a stick to relieve some of the pressure on his leg, but he could move with freedom. I'm not goingto let it slow me down, he kept telling himself every time he felt a bolt of pain shooting up his spine.

He sensed excitement in O'Brien and Morant as they reached the gas station. They were just waiting, he realised, for the right moment to teach the Feds a lesson about who controlled this land.

'He'll be here in a moment,' said O'Brien, as they circled

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round the patch of scrubland at the back of the Texaco station. 'He usually stops between 12.30 and 1.00.'

'And he usually takes a leak,' said Morant. 'Weak bladder, I guess.We'll take him there.' He chuckled to himself.'Always wanted to smash up a Fed bastard with his trousers down.'

Josh stayed silent. Now he could see a Ford Taurus pulling up at the station, the driver climbing out and starting to fill his tank. The man was around thirty-five, with sandy brown hair, and a dull, undistinguished face, already starting to run to fat around the cheeks. He was wearing grey slacks and a beige short-sleeved shirt.

'Motherfucker,' muttered Morant under his breath. 'Thinks he can come down from Washington and start snooping around our town.'

The man put the gas pump's nozzle back into its holder, then walked towards the gents'. Josh was sitting behind two huge plastic rubbish bins, filled to overflowing with the debris from the station: half-filled cups of coffee, and the remains of the micro-waved burgers sold inside. The smell -was mixing with the fumes of gas and diesel and the odours drifting across from the toilet to make Josh feel queasy. Get this over with, he told himself. / can't stand the stink much longer.

The door slammed shut on the toilet.

The three men moved out onto the forecourt and stepped into the gents'. It was painted grey, with white tiles running halfway up the wall and Texaco logos above the sinks. The man was standing with his back tp them, pissing into the urinal. Josh took a quick glance at him, making a rough mental calculation of his size, weight and strength, then worked out the force of the blow that would be needed to take him down. The man glanced back, nodded, then looked back at the urinal. Josh curled his fist into a ball and drew his arm back, coiling the pressure in his shoulder muscles. Then he released his punch.

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The blow landed on the side of the man's neck. The muscles there were loose and relaxed: the man had had no warning of the attack and so had done nothing to prepare himself. The breath was forced out of his windpipe, making him choke. At his side, O'Brien had prepared another blow, delivering his punch straight to the gut. Next, Morant's boot smashed upwards, colliding with the agent's groin, sending a vicious bolt of pain searing up through his body at the same moment that all the oxygen emptied out of his lungs. Still gripping his penis, some urine still trickling from it, the man crumpled to the floor. Josh reached down, grabbing the man's throat and squeezing the air out of him. He could see the agent's eyes closing as shortage of oxygen to his brain made him lose consciousness. But suddenly his eyes were open, staring straight up at Josh, and his hand was clutching at Josh's leg, tearing away at the bandage underneath his jeans, jamming the cotton into the raw wound. Josh bit his tongue to stifle a scream as the pain ripped through him. 'Fucker,' he gasped. He drove his fist hard into the side of the man's face. The agent slumped backward and his hand fell away as his head slammed against the floor. A slow trickle of blood had started to seep down the side of Josh's leg. 'Not much fight in the fucker, is there?' snarled Morant. 'Let's cut his balls off, mand hang them on the door. A warning to the others.' Christ, thought Josh. I know the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all that. But these guys are bloody nutters. Josh took a tissue from his pocket and stuffed it inside the man's mouth. Next he took a roll of duct tape and started to bind up the man's mouth and hands. 'We'll stuff him in the can,' he said. 'This time of night, it should be

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a couple of hours at least before anyone finds him. That gives us enough time.'

Gratuitously, O'Brien smashed his fist into the man's gut again, making his unconscious body jerk. 'Why aren't we killing him?'

'Because if you kill a Fed, you'll get the whole bloody FBI coming down to the town, that's why,' snapped Josh. The pain in his leg was terrible, his head was starting to ache again and his temper was about to fly out of the room.

'Bring 'em on,' muttered Morant. 'Bring 'em on.'

'Fucking liberal,' said O'Brien, glancing towards Josh.

'Christ, let's just get out of here,' said Josh angrily. He grabbed the agent by the shoulders, heaving his body up. 'Hold his legs,' he snapped at O'Brien. He watched while O'Brien took the man by the legs, then they bundled him towards the toilet cubicle. 'Let's go,' said Josh.

O'Brien and Morant followed him out. Josh paused on the step, checking that no one had seen them. It was 12.45 a.m. now, and the forecourt was empty. The clerk sitting at the desk was the only person there, and he was watching the TV next to his desk. There were CCTV cameras, but they were trained on the cash desk. Nothing was recording people coming in and out of the toilet.

'You get in the car,' hissed Josh. 'I'll pay the bill.'

He had taken the jacket off the agent and put it on himself.

'We're not paying for the fucking Fed's gas,' snarled Morant. 'We should have just killed him.'

'Right,' said Josh. 'And you think we can drive out of the gas station without paying the bill and nobody will notice? Get in the car.'

Christ, thought Josh. It's a miracle these morons have stayed out of jail this long.

He walked swiftly towards the cash desk, checking that O'Brien and Morant had made it to the car. I'm taking a risk, he told himself, but a manageable one. Chances were

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the kid on the cash desk hadn't bothered to look at the man as he stepped out of the car and headed to the loos after filling up. And I'm wearing the guy's jacket. So long as the petrol is paid for he'll be happy enough.

They drove in silence from the gas station to the Sheriff's office. All three of them were recovering their breath after the fight. And they were focusing on the battle that lay ahead.

A battery of spotlights was shining down from the front of the Sheriff's office. Josh pulled the Taurus up on the street outside, switching off its lights.

He could feel the nerves in his stomach starting to get jumpy. Of course this was risky, but he had to find out who he was. Morant had assured him that the police station was lightly manned at night: one patrol car and one duty officer. Even so, this town was crawling with agents. It was impossible to know for sure how many people might be in there.

And he was worried that the officer Marshall had beaten up might be there. If so, he would certainly recognise Josh.

I'm taking my life in my hands.

Josh took the wallet from the Fed's jacket he was wearing and looked down at the ID. The name on the badge was Arnie Canestra, FBI Agent Number 2234B. There was a picture, but it was tiny. The memory of the heavy security around the building that he had encountered the other night was still fresh in his mind: they were going to have to make this act convincing if they hoped to get away with it. Let's just hope that O'Brien and Morant don't get any smart ideas.

'You stay in the car,' Josh said, looking at Morant. 'Keep the engine switched off, or it will attract attention. But keep it ready to move. We might need to get out of here in a hurry'

An Italian-American, thought Josh as he stepped towards the entrance to the Sheriff's office. Agent Canestra. Maybe I should talk like Al Padno.

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'Walk quickly,' whispered Josh to O'Brien as he stepped through the doorway. 'A man walks quickly through any building, people assume he's doing something important. They are going to be nervous about stopping him.'