Henchmen (8 page)

Home may be where the heart is, but it’s not always where the quiet is.  When we got back, Jessica disappeared into her room. Jacob was busy shooting random things in the yard, Jean was listening to Ministry at top volume, and Frank was testing saws. 

Yes, saws.

Frank was testing some new electric saws he’d found, which he intended to use to hack into buildings.  They’re pretty quiet, normally, but he was trying to find a way to make them quieter.  Part of this was muffling the motor; the other part is working with the cutting wheels.  The smoother and sharper the wheel, the quieter the cutting.  Of course, there are other things involved - like the material you’re cutting.  Some things just won’t be quiet to cut, but the idea is to treat it like a silenced gun: maybe not perfectly silent, but close enough for jazz and government work.  If you can cut through a padlock without waking up the sleeping guard, you’re probably doing well enough.

He’s test-cutting chains and locks, and there are cut pieces all over the garage.  We may be all out of locks now.

“New toy, Frank?” I ask him after he’s done cutting through a huge padlock.

He flips up his goggles and grins like a kid who just got the biggest damned Lego set in the world.  “This thing can cut through a hardened padlock in 30 seconds.”

“Sweet.  How’s the noise level?” I ask him.

“Not silent quiet, but you’d have to be in the same room to hear it.”

“Any other new stuff?”

He grabs something that looks like a tube with a bulge at the end.  I look at him quizzically as he holds the thing out.  Frank pushes a hidden button and three spikes expand on the tip.

“Compressed air grappling gun, had it custom-built by a guy in town.  Light, portable, quiet. I can go up a ten-story building with this bad boy.”

“Yeah, and quietly cut any locks when you get to the top, right, Batman?” I like needling him every now and then, but Frank’s absolutely amazing at hacking into buildings.  It’s a lost art form these days.  Most people just want to go in the front, guns blazing, and look bold and brazen for the news, no matter how many hats they need to leave laying on the ground.  Hacking a building is both art and science. 

That place we hit in Nevada?  Jacob found it and basically planned it, but getting in?  That was Frank’s work.  He studied blueprints, watched guards, found holes in the security, and exploited them.  The holes he couldn’t find, he and Jean created.  I’ve seen him spend a week studying a place, and get in and out like a ghost.  It’s how he made his living before Eve found him - he hit jewelry stores so smoothly the owners didn’t even know they’d been hit until they came in and found themselves cleaned out.  He can bypass alarms, cut in through a roof, crawl through ducts, climb elevator shafts - you name it.

“You never did appreciate the art,” he tells me.

“Of course I do. I’d love to know how to crack a building like you,” I tell him.

“Yeah, and I’d love to be able to figure out what people are good at. Like you,” he replies.

“What can I say? I’m a real user of people.”

“Yeah, but not in a bad way.”

“Well, not recently,” I mutter.  At some point or another, I’ve used almost everyone I’ve ever known to get slightly further ahead.  “I’m just lucky to work with good people.”

“You’re lucky, all right.”

“Luck is just the intersection of skill and opportunity,” I say.

About this time, Eve comes wandering in to look for some quiet.

“Ooh.  Nice saw,” she tells Frank.  “How fast can it go through a lock?”

Frank beams.  I don’t care who you are, when the boss is impressed with something you’re doing, it always feels good.  “Thirty seconds for a hardened lock.”

“Damn.  Nice find.”

“He’s got Batman’s grappling hook, too,” I jibe.

“Does he have the Bat Utility Belt, too?” she asks, doing her best schoolgirl impression.  Well, a tall, muscular schoolgirl, anyway.

“No, but I do have a Batman costume,” he responds.

“Jean’s such a lucky boy,” she jokes.

Frank grins and blushes at the same time.

“So, how’d it go with Jessica?” she asks me.

“Well, she can handle herself well enough.  She seems to have no compunction with beating someone’s ass.  She seems smart and can manipulate guys by blinking.  I say keep her around,” I respond.

“I’d figured on keeping her around, thank you.  Did you find anything about her dad?”

“His old landlord had him kicked out, escorted out by the cops and left on the street.  Sold everything at auction,” I tell her.

“Why?”

“He was a couple months behind on rent, didn’t respond when the landlord threatened him.  Nearly comatose.  No one’s seen him for years.  Jessica found some box of his, but I don’t know what’s in it.”

“The landlord didn’t call an ambulance or anything?”

“Nope,” I tell her.

“What a prick.  Did you kill him?”

“No.  He never saw the car, and was out cold when we left,” I respond.

“He’s a loose end then, but probably not too dangerous.  Did anything else interesting happen?”

“Not really.  He did seem concerned about ‘
them
,’ though.”

“’
Them
?’”

“He didn’t elaborate, only that ‘
they
’ were looking for the box he had.”

“What’s in the box?” Eve asks me.

“I don’t know.  Jessica didn’t open it in the car.”

“She in her room?” Eve asks me.

“Yep.  Ever since we got back.”

“Hmmm.  I think I need to pay a visit.  You guys enjoy your power tools,” she tells us and walks out of the garage.

Guys always enjoy power tools.  It’s in our wiring.

“I’m gonna grab something to drink,” I tell Frank.  “You want anything?”

“Nah.  I’m good.  Thanks, though.”

He puts his goggles back on and looks for more things to cut.

* * * *

Jacob was involved in gunrunning before gunrunning was cool. He’s managed to keep his contacts over the years, which means we’re never hurting for firearms.  He’s currently testing a monster of a handgun.  It sounds like the hammer of God issuing a pride-obliterating bitch slap, and the brass from the rounds is ginormous.  When he’s finished, he pulls off his ear protection, and admires the gun.

“Is that what I think it is?” I ask him.

“I don’t know.  What do you think it is?” he replies.

This is a game we play.  I grew up around guns, so I’m pretty familiar with them, but he used to sell them, so he’s quite a bit more familiar.

“.44 Automag,” I respond.

“Goddamned right!  This is Mac Bolan’s gun.  You can keep your Desert Eagle! This is class, right here.”

“Do you call it ‘Big Thunder’?” I ask and smirks.  I knew it.  He names his guns. “I haven’t seen one in 20 years, and never got a chance to fire one.  Can I try it?”

If you want to impress a “gun guy” ask to shoot his prized piece, and praise it eight ways to Sunday when you’re done.  Jacob smiles that huge smile of his and hands over the gun, reverently and delicately like the huge pistol is his child.

The .44 Automag was designed to put the power of a rifle in a handgun.  Consider it a precursor to today’s .50 Desert Eagle, but it predates the Eagle by quite a bit.  If these two guns are muscle cars (and believe me, that’s the best way to think of a .44 and .50 handgun), the Automag is an early ‘70s Hemi ‘Cuda, and the Eagle’s a Dodge Viper.  Just like the cars, the guns are a pair of potent beasts.

Jacob’s got a couple concrete cinderblocks set up downrange - the kind you build those industrial gray walls out of.  I get a good Weaver stance - one arm rigid, the other loose, one leg back - and sight down the barrel, both eyes open.  Breathing slows as I relax and squeeze the trigger on the exhale. One of the blocks explodes into dust.  The gun kicks like mule hopped up on caffeine and crack.

“That, my friend, is a damn fine firearm,” I say.  It’s an impressive gun.

“You’ve got six rounds left, Hoss,” he says with a grin.

Even though I’m prepared for the kick, the next shot still surprises me.  I miss the shot because I’m so focused on preparing for the recoil.  Every gun is different; even two guns of the same make and model. Even firing the same ammo (not all ammo is the same, it depends on who loaded it) in the same gun will have a different feel from shot to shot.  It can take hours to learn how to feel your way through shooting a particular gun. 

I relax my muscles, breathe in, squeeze the trigger on the exhale and the second block vanishes.

“Not bad, buddy.  You wasted a round, though.” Jacob chuckles.

Yeah, yeah, yeah
.  My dad used to say ‘gun control is being able to hit your target’. 

“Just wanted an extra dance with your lady,” I tell him.

When he turns around to set the gun back down on the table I notice his freshly-painted leather biker jacket.  It’s got a cow holding a M60 in a roundel, with JAMCAO written underneath it.

“J A M C A O?” I ask him.

“JAMCOW.” He responds.  “There are enough bikers around here to start up a new MC.”

“What’s it stand for?” I ask him.

“Janitors of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Albuquerque Originals,” he responds.

“That’s a mouthful.”

“That’s what she said.”

Jacob can act like a total hard-ass sometimes, but he’s actually a pretty laid-back guy.  He likes to bust people’s balls, but he can take it as well as he can give it, and that’s a rare thing.  We’ve spent hours getting drunk and insulting each other.  (It’s a guy thing - don’t try to understand it.) 

We didn’t get on terribly well when we first met, and actually came to blows when we first met.  He’s got experience fighting, and has learned some pretty dirty tricks, but I’ve spent time learning to look for openings and exploit them.  I wound up with a black eye and splitting headache. He got two broken ribs, and a dislocated shoulder. That was the first and last time we fought. We’ve been friends ever since.

We spend some time shooting and swapping gun stories.  He told me about the first gun he built: “The Hawgleg” was made out of pipe from the back yard and had a nail for a firing pin.  I tell him about the time my dad threatened to shoot a bunch of Jehovah’s Witnesses, and we agree that more people should do that.  The only thing more universally deplored than door-to-door religious salespeople is Congress.  We’re trying to take care of the Congressional problem; the door-to-door religious salespeople problem is up to the rest of you.

When we finally head back in, everyone’s in the kitchen, snacking on the little tidbits we keep around.  Jessica has finally come out of her room, and Jean has finally stopped gaming.

“Gentlemen,” says Eve, “welcome back to the revolution.  Jessica’s dad was apparently involved in some very scary things.”

Jessica’s holding a small black leather book - a diary of some kind or another.  “He didn’t detail everything, but there’s something truly scary in this town.”

“Yeah,” says Jean, “it’s called Los Betos Mexican Cafe.”

Jessica looks confused, but anyone who’s been there will agree: that place is pretty scary.

“I don’t know what that is, but I doubt it’s what my dad was referring to when he referred to the ‘destroyer of worlds.’”

Frank can’t help himself.  “That’s the number four on their dinner menu.”

“Knock it off, guys.”  Eve’s trying to sound serious, but I can tell she thought it was funny, too.

“My dad worked for some place called Radula, but he doesn’t say much about what he did there.  His journal goes downhill pretty quickly; it’s just rambling about ‘dreaming gods’ and ‘living shadows’ by the end.”

“Here’s what we’re going to do: Jean, find out everything you can about this place.  You two,” Eve points at Frank and me, “find the building and see if we can get in.  Jacob, keep blowing holes in things.”

“You got it, boss.” Jacob’s never happier than when he can go blow holes in things.

“What are you two up to?” I ask.