Kingdom of the Seven (20 page)
Read Kingdom of the Seven Online
Authors: Jon Land
“You have until tonight to get it.”
“Karen—”
“And don’t even think about going to Van Dyne’s corporate wing with this, Freddy. Don’t even think of playing hero to your company.” Karen let her eyes drift to the gunmen standing sentry over the scene and waited for Levinger’s to follow her gaze. “You’ve got a wife, Freddy. You’ve got three kids. If anything happens to me tonight …”
“No! That’s sick! How can you—You can’t—”
“Only what was almost done to me, Freddy. When someone threatens your kids, your choices get narrowed pretty fast.” She paused. “I think you just realized that. You do what you have to do.”
“I’ll
do
what I can,” he followed, seething.
do
what I can,” he followed, seething.
“Tonight, Freddy. So long as it’s by tonight.”
McCracken flew from Chicago into Atlanta’s Hartsfield International Airport on the first flight out Wednesday morning, after Sal Belamo successfully completed the next stage of his research into the Reverend Harlan Frye’s Key Society. Specifically, Blaine wanted the name of the largest donor of all.
“No sweat, boss,” Belamo reported first thing Wednesday. “Information wasn’t hard to come by. Guy by the name of Jack Woodrow, better known as Jumpin’ Jack Flash.”
“Don’t know him by either name.”
“Be different if you lived down in the South. Jumpin’ Jack happens to be the most successful automobile dealer in the whole U.S. of A. Got maybe twenty dealerships spread over five states, and all of them rake in a ton. Made his name with trucks, four-by-fours, RVs, and campers, and they’re still the source of his primary bread and butter. He operates a dealership outside of Atlanta that’s got
twenty solid acres of them lined up bumper to bumper, new shipments coming in every day.”
twenty solid acres of them lined up bumper to bumper, new shipments coming in every day.”
“What’s Woodrow in for with Frye?”
“Near as I can figure, a hundred easy, boss.”
“A hundred
million
?”
million
?”
“I kid you not. You ask me, Jumpin’ Jack must figure he’s got a lot of soul to save.”
Blaine ran that through his mind briefly before speaking again. “I’ll ask him personally when I get to Atlanta. Anything from Johnny?”
“Funny you should ask. Called me last night from Cali-for-ni-a. He’s been spending some time in the woods. Turns out he ran into some holdovers from a criminal commune Earvin Early literally fell into. You’ll never guess who the founder was.”
“Harlan Frye.”
“I gotta stop underestimating you, boss. Anyway, maybe fifteen years ago Frye tries to burn up the members who don’t agree with his plans.”
“Nice way to treat your followers.”
“Hey, if he ain’t changed …” Sal Belamo let the thought complete itself. “You want me to tell the big fella to head east?”
“And make sure he keeps calling in.”
For Jacob and Rachel the wait was agonizing. Blaine McCracken was surely long gone from Illinois by now, and they needed to know to where. So far, contacts still available to their father had managed to turn up a number of the aliases McCracken traveled under, so the search had to incorporate all of them at both O’Hare and Midway airports.
It was Rachel who answered the phone in their hotel room when it rang.
“Atlanta,” the voice of her father said flatly. “McCracken flew to Atlanta.”
“Atlanta?” A chill passed through her. “Jack Woodrow,” she said to her brother.
“He knows!” Jacob responded. “If he’s going after Woodrow, he must have the list Ratansky stole!”
“How large is his head start on us?” Rachel asked their father.
“Several hours.”
“We’ll make it up,” she said, and hung up the phone.
The most impressive thing about Jumpin’ Jack Woodrow was that he still involved himself in the day-to-day operation of his business. When the time was there, between shooting commercials and attending benefits, he rotated his days between dealerships. He still took pleasure in every single sale, and the ones he closed himself were especially gratifying. He also busied himself occasionally back in the service department, where he was not above getting his hands dirty on an oil change.
His flagship and favorite dealership remained the Flash Pot on Buford Highway in Chamblee, Georgia, a suburb of Atlanta. It was sprawled over a patch of land directly across from the Church of God Woodrow had pried from the hands of the Gwinnet County commissioners, planting some thick green in their hands in return. Buford Highway was a motor-head’s delight, auto body and repair shops crammed along its entire stretch, interspersed here and there with an occasional fast-food franchise. Woodrow couldn’t think of a better place for the world’s biggest truck and RV dealership. Twenty acres of product right smack between two major access roads to Hot-lanta itself, twenty minutes from downtown and easily accessible from just about everywhere. The Flash loved walking amongst the glistening, sunbaked steel just waiting to be driven off his property and onto some lucky buyer’s, especially since these kinds of vehicles carried the biggest markups.
Customers who were shopping at the dealership where Jack Woodrow happened to be at the time were never disappointed. What they saw on television was exactly what they got in real life, right down to the flab-layered belly. That belly had become famous itself on the day Jack
Woodrow couldn’t squeeze it all the way under one of his campers’ tables in a commercial filmed at the Flash Pot, but bit into the shitty sandwich anyway without the director having to call cut once. He was still running the damn spot. The man known affectionately as Jumpin’ Jack Flash didn’t mind being laughed at, so long as those doing the laughing came in to buy. He hadn’t been seen in years without his signature spur boots, khaki ten-gallon hat, and string tie.
Woodrow couldn’t squeeze it all the way under one of his campers’ tables in a commercial filmed at the Flash Pot, but bit into the shitty sandwich anyway without the director having to call cut once. He was still running the damn spot. The man known affectionately as Jumpin’ Jack Flash didn’t mind being laughed at, so long as those doing the laughing came in to buy. He hadn’t been seen in years without his signature spur boots, khaki ten-gallon hat, and string tie.
Wednesday was his normal day to enjoy himself at the Flash Pot, and this week should have been no exception, would have been if it weren’t for the call from Harlan Frye’s people the night before. Seems the old Reverend was concerned an enemy of his might decide to pay the Flash a visit. Not to worry, they told him. Just go about your business and let us handle things. Oh, and if you see a man with …
Jack Woodrow wedged his trademark ten-gallon hat on at ten o’clock sharp and emerged from his private office into the showroom, drinking in the luscious scents of fresh steel and rubber. In the case of the Flash Pot, that showroom was half the size of a football field and contained everything from a customized pickup to the flagship of the Winnebago line, a house on wheels that slept five and came complete with a Jacuzzi whirlpool. There were forty to fifty vehicles all told, at least half of them being hawked by eager salesmen to potential customers.
Jack Woodrow was moving through the already crowded showroom when a big, bearded figure slid through the main entrance and looked right at him.
“Uh-oh,” the Flash muttered to himself.
McCracken took one look at the man he recognized as Jumpin’ Jack Woodrow and knew something was wrong. The fat man’s eyes spun away from him and scanned the room, Blaine’s following.
Almost all the conversations between customers and salesmen had stopped, and too many glances had turned
his way. That instant’s advantage was all McCracken needed to tear his SIG-Sauer free of its holster and nail the first four of the bogus customers who had managed to whip submachine guns from inside their jackets. Then he was in motion, dancing and dodging from behind one vehicle to the next, as bullets from the gunmen blew out the glass from windshields and windows and punctured tires along his escape route.
his way. That instant’s advantage was all McCracken needed to tear his SIG-Sauer free of its holster and nail the first four of the bogus customers who had managed to whip submachine guns from inside their jackets. Then he was in motion, dancing and dodging from behind one vehicle to the next, as bullets from the gunmen blew out the glass from windshields and windows and punctured tires along his escape route.
“No!” he was conscious of a voice screaming that must have belonged to Jack Woodrow. “
Stop!
”
Stop!
”
Some of that glass sprayed outward toward his face, and he threw his free hand up instinctively to block it. He continued firing his SIG, the remaining twelve shots in this clip reserved for the areas of largest enemy concentration. He placed the bullets well enough to buy him the time and space he needed to launch into a dash toward a massive plate glass window at the showroom’s side. The gunmen responded just as he expected them to, by firing wild barrages in his general direction. One of the barrages shattered the glass of the window he was rushing for, so it took hardly any effort at all to crash through with his arms covering his face.
Blaine rolled once upon hitting the pavement and jumped back to his feet, already running. He briefly considered angling for Buford Highway, but that route would bring him into the open with no possibility of cover. His remaining choice was the massive twenty-acre lot crammed with vehicles.
He lost himself quickly between the first rows of four-by-fours, arranged by colors and available options. There was barely room to move between their front bumpers. He stayed low and rushed for the lot’s rear, where escape might be easier found. But first he calculated he had another two dozen heavily armed men to elude and outwit, even as they moved to surround him and close in from the perimeters. All McCracken had working for him, the only viable advantage he could seize, were the logistics of the lot itself.
A bullet rang out and clanged off the grille of a midnight blue pickup. Behind him a pair of gunmen were snaking their way down the narrow aisle on his trail. McCracken twisted and fired a trio of shots from the SIG’s fresh clip in their direction. When they lunged for cover, he dove behind the four-by-four on his right and continued on from one vehicle to the next.
Maintaining the stalemate, though, meant he was losing. Pinned down, hampered by an obvious lack of firepower, he would inevitably be encircled and closed upon. But the inevitable could be modified. It was a matter of taking advantage of the elements afforded him, weapons created out of what would not ordinarily be considered in that vein.
Gas tanks …
The lot had a natural downward grade to it that would send the freed gasoline coasting downward beneath the pickups toward where the Flash Pot met Buford Highway. Blaine pulled the ever-present Riggin knife from his pocket and locked the fid extension into place. The fid, normally used for parting individual strands of rope or line, could puncture steel like butter. McCracken slid under the nearest truck and went to work.
“Where is he? Where the fuck did he go?”
“Under the trucks!” returned the second of the gunmen farthest down the long, narrow rows of jammed-together four-by-fours. “I think he’s crawling under the trucks!”
The first man immediately flopped to his knees and squeezed beneath the nearest flaming red pickup. The asphalt was still wet and puddled by the heavy rains from the night before, and he could feel the water soaking through to his legs as he crawled farther along. He could see the whole way to the end of the row.
“No sign of him,” he called to his partner. “Not a damn thing.”
“He must be
in
one of the trucks!”
in
one of the trucks!”
The man beneath the truck grunted an acknowledgment and shimmied back out, his clothes covered with grease
and grime. Together they moved in combat fashion down the long line, each truck checked by one while the other held a submachine gun at the ready. At the far end of the row, another quartet of men had begun the same process. The rest of the assault team members kept their distance in positions enclosing the long stack of four-by-fours from all angles. The pair closing from the showroom end of the Flash Pot lot had just passed the center of the row when one noticed a fresh, thin puddle snailing along, lapping up near his loafers and then heading on by.
and grime. Together they moved in combat fashion down the long line, each truck checked by one while the other held a submachine gun at the ready. At the far end of the row, another quartet of men had begun the same process. The rest of the assault team members kept their distance in positions enclosing the long stack of four-by-fours from all angles. The pair closing from the showroom end of the Flash Pot lot had just passed the center of the row when one noticed a fresh, thin puddle snailing along, lapping up near his loafers and then heading on by.
“Jesus,” he muttered, “Jes—”
McCracken popped up from the rear bed of a four-by-four, eight vehicles down the row, between the two converging enemy groups. His SIG spit rounds at the nearest pair coming from the other side and felled both of them instantly. They had barely crumpled when the other two closing from that direction opened fire.
“No!” screamed the man whose nostrils were now drinking in the scent of gasoline.
His warning came too late. The bullets from the converging team ignited the gas flowing beneath the fuel tanks along the row, setting off a series of explosions that followed one after the other like dominoes.
Blaine had hurled himself from the truck bed where he had stowed himself in the instant before the blind return fire commenced. He landed on the asphalt and launched himself sideways. The explosions became his camouflage, stealing sight of him from any of the gunmen with the sense to look. He darted dangerously close to the edge of the expanding flames in a crouch toward the Flash Pot’s rear and the endless rows of fully equipped campers, scooping up a pair of submachine guns from the enemy pair he’d downed en route.
There was no way to count exactly how many of the enemy had perished in the blasts behind him. At least four more, McCracken guessed, had been in the immediate area when they struck. Add to that the two he had shot out here
and the four incapacitated in the showroom, and McCracken figured that still left him with upward of fifteen more to face.
and the four incapacitated in the showroom, and McCracken figured that still left him with upward of fifteen more to face.
A good start.
The members of the assault team never knew what hit them. The ones in charge ran about the angry flames trying to restore order and reorganize their charges. Men were bleeding. Men were staggering and screaming. Men looked like blackened, charred pieces of wood, wearing dazed expressions on their features.
The ones in the worst condition were left to seal the front of the lot off in case McCracken opted to double back that way. The rest, reasonably unscathed by the blasts, converged on the rear of the Flash Pot in a wide arc. The electrified security fence would keep McCracken from getting out through the back. But having already seen a demonstration of his work firsthand, few took comfort in that.
“Keep your spread,” the leader barked, his voice turned ugly and deep by the smoke that had burned his throat. “Shoot anything that moves.”
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