The Covert Element (9 page)

"You following?"

I pointed at myself with a forefinger.
Who? Me?

"Um hmm," I dared, not looking for another flicking.

"Couple years later, after his stint in the Rangers, Sarge goes
home to Tampico to help his family. Mom’s sick and dad died. But
when his mom dies, instead of moving back to the states, Sarge
stays in Tampico. Takes over the family fishing business. Then I
don’t hear from him for years. We pretty much lose contact. Ya
know?"

It was rhetorical. I kept eating.

Bull stopped speaking and forked some tepid jerk into his
mouth, following it with a swallow of Red Stripe.

We sat in silence, eating, until both of us had finished our
meals.

After a good long time, I asked Bull, "So does this story have an
ending?"

Bull sipped his beer.

"Sorta. But sorta another beginning. Sarge messaged me last
night – through command channels, nothing direct, ya know?"

I nodded. All of Bull’s communications with his Sergeant
would have gone through a government communications facility. It
was a security measure employed by all special forces personnel –
including Rangers.

"Sarge says he’s in trouble with some drug cartel and he needs
my help. He wants out of Mexico and needs some place to hide out
for a while – like yesterday!

"So I give him my phone number and he calls me right up. Asks
if he can stay with me for a little while."

"Geez, Bull. If there’s a drug cartel after him, don’t you think
that might be a little dangerous putting him up at your place?"

"Just because I was enlisted doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. Of
course I know that. But I owe him. Learned a lot from the guy.
Probably saved my life a time or two."

"Yeah. I get it. So how can I help?"

"I don’t need your help."

"What? Then why the hell did you call me over here? Just to
tell me this story?" I may have come off as, perhaps, a bit indignant.

Bull flicked my forehead again.

"Cut that out." I grabbed my head this time.

"Quit being so stupid then and let me finish."

"Okay. But no more flicking."

Bull gave no sign that he had heard me.

"No flicking, okay?"

"You want to hear what I’ve got to say or not?"

I wasn’t so sure I was willing to risk a concussion to hear what
else Bull had to say. But it was so unusual for him to say anything at
all, I just had to hear it out.

"Go ahead."

"So I tell Sarge it’s okay. He should come up.

"And then he says he knows who did some mass murder up in
Minnesota."

That got my attention.

"I tell him there hasn’t been any mass murder. But he says
yes."

Bull looked at me for a long minute.

"There aren’t many people I can talk to about this kinda stuff,
ya know. So I figure I’ll talk to you. Maybe you know something.
Can make some sense of what Sarge is saying."

I wasn’t sure what to say.
How did Bull’s old Sergeant know
about yesterday’s massacre?
The cops still had it under wraps as
far as I could tell. Why would he tell Bull about it? And where would
Bull’s allegiance lie?

"Geez, Bull. I don’t know what to say." I needed a second to
consider. I’d promised Gunner I’d stay mum.

Bull looked – I don’t know – maybe disappointed?
Damn he’s
hard to read!

"Okay. Listen, Bull." I motioned for him to lean in towards me.
He leaned over as far as he could without shoving the table into my
gut.

"There
has
been
an . . . incident . . . kinda like what your
Sergeant described."

"What the hell does that mean? What’s kinda like a mass
murder?" Bull’s voice was tense.

"It means that, yes, there
has been
a crime in Minnesota where
a whole bunch of people died. It happened just yesterday morning.
Gunner let me in on it. But the Staties are keeping it under wraps
for now. Gunner’ll be in deep shit if you tell anyone."

"How’s Gunner know about it?"

"It happened right here in Ottawa County, that’s how."

Bull sat back.

I could tell that my news had completely surprised Bull. I’d
have to file his expression away for future reference in similar
circumstances.
Yeah. Like the next time I sprang a mass murder on
him. Right!

"Bull, if you’re gonna help your Sarge anyway, I’d sure as hell
like to have a sit down with him and see what he knows. If this
murder thing has a Mexican connection . . . hell, I don’t know what.
But it’d sure be nice to know it.

"So when is your Sergeant coming north?"

"Says he’ll be here ASAP. Hard to say exactly."

"When he gets here, let me know right away, okay? I’ve gotta
find out what he knows about this so called ‘mass murder’."

"Figured you’d maybe wanna see him. I’ll let you know." He
put his thumb and pinky out like a phone – a really big phone – and
shook his hand by his ear. I wondered where he’d picked up that
gesture. Not very Bull-like. The man was definitely an enigma.

Just then we were interrupted by a commotion over in the
biker corner of the bar. The few patrons who had been sitting
elsewhere along the bar had gotten up quickly and were on their
way out the door.

The four Indiana bikers were all standing in a semi-circle
around something, or someone, at the bar.

"You better get the hell outta here," the skinny bartender was
yelling, "or I’ll bash your heads in!" He was brandishing a miniature
baseball bat.

You had to give him credit for balls. One against four. And each
of the four bigger than him.

One of the biker thugs climbed over the bar and disarmed the
barman, tossing him to the floor. Then I could see what they were
standing around. Our Jamaican waitress.

"C’mon. Gimme summa that brown shugga, Baby." The
apparent pack leader drooled, placing his face next to hers.

She kept trying to squirm through their blockade. But they
always grabbed an arm or a leg and pulled her back in – taunting
her.

The fourth biker had returned from behind the bar, swigging
on a bottle of Jack Daniels.

I looked at Bull. He had observed the same spectacle as I.

"Take the door," I said.

"Got it."

I stood up as Bull slipped out the main doorway.

Looking around for likely weapons, I settled on the empty Red
Stripe bottles. I picked up four and moved quickly toward the
bikers.

While I was still thirty feet away, I beaned the lead dipshit with
a Red Stripe. It had the desired affect. He turned his attention from
the waitress toward me.

"Didn’t your mommas ever teach you boys any manners?" I
fired off Red Stripe number two. The lead guy ducked, exposing his
buddy for a beer bottle direct to the face.

"We got no quarrel with you, Jack." It was the biker king . . . or
Duke . . . or you know what I mean. "Why don’t cha jus’ get the hell
outta here before we throw ya out." He speech was slurred.

One of them grabbed the waitress by the elbows from behind.
The others circled toward me, apparently threatening to make good
on the boss man’s offer.

I was nearly at their little group now. "I gotta better idea. How
‘bout you leave the little lady alone."

Before any further discussion could be had, there was a loud
crash and a cursing male voice outside in the parking lot.

"Goddamn pussy bikers!"

Crash.

"Weenie rice-burners!"

Crash.

"Only chicken shits pick on women!"

Crash. Thud. Thud. Thud.

"Oh, oh, Guys," I said. "Sounds like somebody’s messin’ with
your trikes."

"Get the bikes," the leader yelled.

Three of them bolted. The one with the wriggling waitress was
left behind.

I smashed my remaining two bottles on the floor in front of the
last Duke. The distraction was momentary. But as he looked my way
I had landed a square fist in the center of his face. His hands went
to his nose and the waitress scampered free and out the rear onto
the patio. His back had slid down the bar and he now sat,
examining his bloody hands.

I bolted for the door. Bull would need help.

When I got outside, Bull seemed to have things pretty well
under control. He stood on the far side of their four tipped
motorcycles, protected in front by the tangle of handle bars and
mufflers, and on one side by his red Jeep Cherokee. He held what
looked to be an axe handle in his hands.

One of the would-be gangsters made a move around the open
side of the bikes toward Bull. He brought the handle down on a
flame-decaled gas tank, leaving a substantial dent. The biker
stopped.

"Sorry," said Bull. "Needed doin’."

Every time another biker worked up the guts, or more likely the
liquor, to make a try for Bull, he smashed another expensive cycle
part. I circled wide and joined Bull at his Cherokee.

"Tire iron on the back seat."

I opened the back side door.

"Got it," I said.

It was getting to the point where the bikers had little to lose in
bike market value.

"You assholes gonna die!" the leader screamed.

He reached into a side bag on one of the bikes and produced a
large revolver. Before I knew it, he was doing his best to point the
cannon at me.

In the momentary silence, we heard a ‘click’ behind the bikers.
Then another ‘click’ and yet another.

We all looked in the direction of the sounds. The waitress had
told the guys on the patio what was happening and they had come
to join the altercation. Three of them held .357 magnums with the
hammers back, and pointed toward the melee.

"Look what these assholes did to our bikes," the leader whined.
"Help us finish ‘em off."

But the patio crew would have none of it.

"Okay. Toss that gun over here, Junior." He was an older guy
with a beer gut and a wispy beard. "Right now." His voice was calm.

Everyone froze.

"I said
now
, Junior!" he yelled, pulling another gun from the
small of his back and pointing it at the leader of the Fishbein Dukes.

"Junior" relented, sending his gun skidding across the
pavement to beer gut.

"I’d kick the shit out of you myself if these guys hadn’t already
done some nice work on your scooters. You never treat a lady like
that again! You hear me, Dukes?" He spat out the last word.