Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) (40 page)

Reggie spotted the northbound U-Haul, same model as Lonnie had used before, doing the limit and no more.  He lifted the binocs Kris had brought along and focused on the windshield.  Nothing but shadow within shadows until it passed under a streetlight.  He caught a glimpse of the driver’s face as the light flashed across it, but that was all he needed.

“That’s him!  Let’s go!  Let’s nail that fucker!”

Kris gave his horn a toot and rolled down his window.  He pointed to the truck and yammered something.  The Jeep chirped its tires as it raced off.  Kris rolled up his window but the Suburban stayed put.

Reggie slapped the back of Kris’s seat.  “Whatta you waitin’ for?  Let’s go!”

Kris shook his head.  “No.  We stay.”

“Fuck that!  I got payback comin’!”

“You go nowhere.  We stay.  Orders.”

Orders from the Order.  And Kris wasn’t about to disobey.

Reggie leaned back.  This sucked.  But the idea was to take Lonnie alive.  Maybe after the Order was through with him, they’d give Reggie some time to get up close and personal with the son of a bitch. 

2

Jack cruised north on Route 13, glad to be halfway home.  A box of a dozen assorted Krispy Kremes sat on the passenger seat.  He’d spent much of the empty road time thinking pleasant thoughts about his next encounter with Cristin.  The taste of her tequila, the taste of her soft skin and the soft sounds she made as she came… memory and anticipation helped keep him awake and alert.  Had to remember to remind her not to mention him should she talk to anyone from home.

In-the-moment reality intruded somewhere north of Salisbury when he began to suspect he had a tail.  A dark SUV – black or blue, he couldn’t tell – had been lingering in his side-view mirror. 

Up until then he’d had smooth sailing.  He’d left New York at noon and, despite heavier than expected traffic, made the trip in just under eight hours.  The new contact, a fat guy in bib overalls, was waiting for him as planned at a Fairfield Inn outside Elizabeth City.  He called himself Vern – that might even have been his real name – and reminded Jack of Junior Samples in need of a shave.  He took the truck in exchange for a room key.  Jack had lain on the bed but it was too early for sleep, so he watched a painful
Head of the Class
, followed by
Roseanne
.  He didn’t have a TV in his apartment and had been planning on buying one.  He decided to revisit that decision.  It didn’t seem like he was missing a damn thing.

A knock on the door saved him from
Coach
.

Vern handed him the truck keys.  “All yours,” he said and started to walk away.

“Whoa-whoa,” Jack said.  “Not so fast.  Let’s take a look at the cargo first.”

His round, unshaven face darkened.  “What?  You don’t trust me?”

The guy was big and evidently had a chip on his shoulder.  Jack did not want to get into it with him.

“I just met you, Vern.  And I had a bad experience with the cargo on my last run.  So humor me, okay?  We’ll just walk out to the truck and I’ll take a peek inside, okay?”

Vern obviously didn’t like it but he went along and a peek showed the bay packed to the ceiling with Marlboro master cases.  Satisfied, Jack had driven off, leaving Vern standing in the parking lot.

He checked his side-view mirror for the tenth time in the past minute.  The SUV – he’d pegged it as a Jeep – was hanging back, pacing him.  When Jack slowed, it slowed; when he picked up speed, it did the same.  He spotted a truck stop ahead on the right and pulled in.  The car followed. 

Shit.

His heart picked up tempo as he pulled up to the pumps.  He didn’t need gas but went inside and prepaid for five bucks’ worth anyway.  The car – a dark green Jeep Cherokee – had pulled into a parking space.  As he waited for change, he watched out of the corner of his eye.  Two figures in the front seat but he couldn’t make out their faces.  They remained in the car. 

Unless they thought he was totally stupid, they had to know they’d been made.  What next?

He picked up a wrapped toothpick from a shotglass on the counter and went outside.  The guys were still in the car.  What were they after – the truck, or him?  He needed the answer to that.

Well, he wasn’t without resources. Against Bertel’s rules, he’d brought the Ruger and stashed it under the front seat.  The last thing he wanted was a shoot out.  His aim wasn’t all that great under range conditions; he could imagine how accurate he’d be with someone shooting at him. 

While the gas was pumping, he climbed into the truck’s cab and stuck the Ruger into the back of his belt line.  When he finished with the gas, he started the truck and left the door open as he walked back to the shop.  If that didn’t shout
Steal me
, nothing did.

Without going inside he asked loud and clear about a restroom.  The guy jerked a thumb over his shoulder – toward the right side of the building. 

Jack rounded the corner and paused.  After hearing two car doors slam, he ran to the restroom, pulled the door open, and checked the inside knob.  As expected, a standard lever model with a push-button lock.  He pushed the button and squeezed the toothpick in beside it, jamming it in locked position.  Then he slammed the door and ran around the rear of the building. 

He emerged on the other side and checked the Cherokee – empty, with neither occupant in sight.  If they were after his cargo, one of them would be behind the truck’s steering wheel and hauling ass out of here. 

So… they were after him. 

He would have preferred the former.

He dashed past the Jeep to his truck.  He wished he’d brought a knife so he could slash their tires or cut a couple of valve stems.  He could shoot the tires, of course, but that would have the attendant calling 911.

He hopped behind the wheel, slammed the door, and roared back toward the road.  Along the way he saw two men outside the men’s room, tugging on the doorknob.  They spotted him and started to run.

All right.  Now even more obvious that they were after
him
, not the cigarettes.  Only one reason for that: to find the money. Which meant they’d want him alive.  And that was a good thing.

Jack’s heart was pounding now.  He couldn’t outrun them, and he sure as hell couldn’t call the cops.  So what the hell to do?  Route 13 was a glorified country road around here.  Should he stay on it or get off?  He discarded the get-off option – the side roads were darker than 13 and looked like narrow, macadam traps.  If he could find some other cars heading north he could hang with them, but the road was deserted.  Okay, yeah, it was a Monday night – or early Tuesday morning, rather – but didn’t anybody around here go out during the week?

He wished he had more experience with this sort of thing.

He kept the gas pedal floored, passing eighty, pushing toward ninety miles an hour when headlights flashed in his mirror, coming up fast.  Now what?

The Cherokee swerved into the southbound lane and pulled up on his left side.  The passenger was leaning out the window, his arm extended, gripping a semiautomatic.  Jack instinctively ducked back, then noticed that the pistol was pointed down, not up.

He was shooting at the truck’s tires.

Maybe they wanted him alive, but a blowout at this speed could leave him just as dead as a bullet through the head.

He saw muzzle flashes but the reports were reduced to pops through the closed window.  He was reaching around to the small of his back, figuring two could play this game, when he realized: Hey, I’m bigger than they are.

Taking a tight, two-handed grip on the steering wheel, he wrenched it left.  The truck sideswiped the Cherokee, crushing the arm of the shooter and sending the Jeep careening off the road into a ditch where it flipped rear over front.  The shooter flew from the window and pinwheeled through the air while the Jeep landed on its roof, pancaking the top and blowing out all the windows as it spun a one-eighty, then rolled onto its passenger side.

Jack slammed on the brakes.  After the truck swerved and skidded to a halt on the shoulder, he pulled his Ruger and ran back to see what was what.  He had some questions that needed answering

The Jeep’s engine had died but its headlights remained on and aimed across the road.  The shooter’s semiauto lay in the middle of the blacktop.  Jack kicked it to the side and approached the shooter himself.  Pale-skinned with blond hair, he lay crumpled on the shoulder, eyes staring, arms, legs, and neck at impossible angles. 

No answers from this guy.

He moved on to the side-resting car, approaching the crushed roof. The radiator was hissing, sending up plumes of steam.  He looked down through the shattered window space and saw the roof resting on the headrests of the front seats.  The driver, another white guy – Jack had expected Arabs – hung from his seatbelt. Jack leaned closer and saw bloody bubbles forming and popping between his slack lips.  Alive, but not a font of information at the moment.

“Looks like we wasted our time, bro.”

Jack spun, Ruger raised. 

“Whoa!” said one of the two figures approaching across the road. 

They both stopped midway and raised their hands.  A dark blue sedan idled with its lights out on the opposite shoulder.  He hadn’t heard it over the hissing steam.

“We’re on your side.”

Jack recognized that voice.  Deacon Blue.  The Mikulskis.

“What are you two doing here?”

“Looking out for your ass,” said Blue as they resumed their approach.  “But you seem to have taken care of business.”

Black picked up the shooter’s pistol.  He turned it over in his gloved hands, popped the magazine, and examined it.  He shook his head,
tsk
ing.

“Trying to shoot out a spinning truck tire with nine-millimeter hollowpoints.”

“Really,” said Blue as he crouched beside the dead shooter.  “Somebody was watching too many movies.”

He patted the shooter’s body and removed his wallet.  Pocketing it, he rose and moved toward the Jeep.

“I don’t get it,” Jack said.

“Low percentage shot.  ’Specially with hollowpoints.” 

Black was turning the pistol over in his hands.  “I’ll be damned.  It’s a Tokarev.”

“What’s that?”

“Old Russian Army pistol now made by the Chinese.”

Jack looked down at the shooter.  “He’s not Chinese.”

“They’re still popular in Europe.”

“Piece of crap,” Black said and tossed it into the field at the side of the road.

Blue looked in on the driver.  “Hey, this guy’s still breathing.”

He reached in with both arms.  After fumbling around a bit, he came up with a second wallet.  He reinserted his arms and made a sharp jerking motion.

Jack stepped forward.  “What’d you just do?”

“Solved the breathing problem.”

“What?  I wanted to talk to him!”

“Wasn’t going to happen,” Blue said.  “If he survived long enough to get to a hospital, he wouldn’t be talking for days.  And we’ve all got to get out of here.”

“Haven’t you learned your lesson?” Black said, stepping closer.  “You leaving the wrong guy alive is why we’re all standing here.”

The accusation startled Jack.  “You think Reggie–?”

“Is this the route you and him followed up to Staten Island?”

Jack nodded as a sick feeling grew in his stomach.  “Yeah.”  Reggie must have laid out the path for whoever was after the money.  “But why are you guys here?”

Black said, “We figured this might happen.  I kind of blame myself for letting a green newbie make a decision that I just knew was going to come back and bite him in the ass.”

“Not so green,” Blue said.  “Take a look around.”

“Yeah, you did all right.  But you were lucky.  The bad news is Reggie wasn’t in the Jeep.  That means you’re going to have to deal with him again.”

Blue patted the pocket where he’d stowed the wallets.  “Maybe these guys can give us an idea as to who’s behind this.”

“Meanwhile,” Black said, looking up and down the road,” let’s get out of here.  We may be in the sticks, but sooner or later somebody’s gonna come along.”

“Thanks, guys,” Jack said.

The brothers headed back toward their car.

“We didn’t do shit,” Black said.

“Still, I appreciate the thought.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll follow you back,” Blue said, “but from here on we’re staying home.  And you should do the same.  You make another one of these runs, you’re on your own.”

“I hear ya.”

He hurried back to his truck and resumed the trek north. 

Good advice from the Mikulskis.  And he was going to take it. 

Bertel was going to be royally pissed, but too bad.  Jack was a sitting duck out here on the road.  Next time he might be the one lying in a ditch.

3

Kris had dialed his car phone about a dozen times, but his buddies in the Jeep weren’t answering.

Not good.  Not that Reggie thought for an instant that Lonnie had bested those two Eurothugs. He might be quick with his hands when a guy wasn’t suspecting anything, but this was different.  The guys after him were about Reggie’s age, maybe older, and carried themselves like seasoned vets.  Lonnie wasn’t going to sucker-punch those two.  But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have got themselves on the wrong side of some state or local mounties.

“Maybe we’d better cruise on down the road apiece and see what’s what,” Reggie said. 

“Orders are to stay.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve done your stayin’, now it’s time do a little reconnoiterin’.”

“We must wait for them here.”

“If they were coming, they’d be here by now, or they would have called.  Something’s wrong, Kris.  That’s obvious.  And your higher-ups might be asking you later why you didn’t go see if you could help.”

Kris chewed his upper lip for a few seconds, then gave a quick nod.  He threw the car in gear and started rolling.  A couple of miles past the truck stop they came across a couple of cop cars with their lights flashing.  Behind them a steaming Jeep Cherokee lay on its side. 

Reggie let slip a “Holy shit!” while Kris blurted something unintelligible and Kadir mentioned Allah before slapping a hand over his mouth.  They slowed to watch a cop covering a sprawled body with some sort of tarp.  A second cop was crouched by the Jeep shining a light into the front compartment.  The first cop looked up from the body and motioned them to keep moving.