Cahill

I could hear the din from the bar as I exited my SUV and I was still almost a block away. What a shame! I knew from long experience that would change as soon as my foot crossed the threshold. I tend to have that effect on people. I’m six feet six inches tall and I weigh an even 250 pounds—all of it broad shouldered muscle. My Body Mass Index at my last physical was less than four percent. My light brown hair is styled exactly the way it’s been for the past fifteen years—ever since I first joined the Navy. Sure enough, no sooner had I taken my first step into the bar than the noise died. When I turned left and stepped up to the bar the people there couldn’t back away fast enough. I took a stool in the middle of the empty space and sat down, waiting for the bartender to approach. “I’m not looking for any trouble.” “Good…neither am I. Give me a ginger ale.” He reached under the bar for a glass and some ice. Twenty seconds later he slid the glass in my direction. I pulled a fiver from my pocket and dropped it on the bar. He ignored it and walked away to draw a few beers and pour some wine. It looked to me like this was a pretty cheap crowd. Checking up and down the bar all I could see were longnecks and drafts. I reached into the lower left pocket of my cargo pants. Like almost everything else I was wearing they were a true deep navy blue. My heavy shoes were black as was my wide belt. My belt said as much about me as the bold white lettering across my chest. Just below the American flag over my heart were the letters that were my life—U. S. MARSHAL. On my right hip was my nickel plated .44 Magnum Colt Python, just behind two speed loaders in addition to the twenty-four rounds on the belt. On my left hip was my ASP Talon baton—every bit as deadly a weapon in my hands as the revolver. A pouch at the back of my right hip held my stainless steel handcuffs and its partner on the opposite side held my radio—my link to my backup team. I placed the photo flat on the bar as the bartender returned to me. “I’ll have another,” I said in a loud voice, continuing so I wouldn’t be overheard. “Don’t pick it up and don’t make a production of looking at it. I’ve been told that he comes here a lot. Is he here tonight? If he is and he escapes because you’ve given me away I’ll see to it that you’re arrested for obstruction of justice.” He gulped a few times but did as he was told, nodding slightly in response. I continued almost at a whisper. “If my nose is pointing to twelve o’clock, my right ear to three, the back of my head to six, and my left ear to nine, tell me where he is. Again, don’t point or do anything obvious and we’ll be fine.” He pretended to wipe the bar as he whispered, “About 4:30 with his back to you.” I picked up the reflection in the mirror then asked, “Red shirt with black and white stripes, looking away from me?” He nodded again. Now, in my normal tone of voice I asked, “Where’s the men’s room?”

Fredrick_Udele · Fantasía

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69 Chs

CHAPTER 36

He called out to Haynes. "Okay, Haynes—we both know you gots nowhere to go. But here's a thought for you to think about. You ain't goin' nowhere unless you want to take your chances with the canyon or you want your shot at me. I'll meet you mano a mano right out here in the yard. Just throw your gun out and you can have your chance."

"Yeah…sure; right after you shoot me. No thanks," Haynes called out from the dark interior of the big building.

"Let's face it," Daryl continued, "We have water and can get all the food we need to starve you out or we can just shoot some tear gas into the building, but then I'm gonna miss out on whuppin' your fat white ass for you. I knew you were a racist, but I never figured you for a coward, too. You're going to prison either way, so why not go as a man and not some pussy white chicken shit?"

It was all I could do to keep a straight face as I whispered, "I never knew you were a racist, Daryl."

"Shut up, Matt. I'm getting to him. He really thinks he can whip me so I just need to bait him a little more. You'll see." Then, raising his voice again, "I can't believe you're such a pussy…afraid to go one on one against this worthless nigger."

That apparently got Haynes worked up because he responded almost immediately. "I'll show you who's a pussy. Just don't shoot me and Cahill, you keep that fucking dog away from me."

"No problem, Haynes; just throw your guns out the door." I held Max as he stepped toward the doorway to throw his AK toward the state police. A few seconds later he stepped out into the clearing.

"Don't forget your pistol, Haynes," I reminded him. He reached behind his belt and, smirking, tossed it away. Daryl stepped from behind the cart and handed me his shotgun and pistol before removing his vest.

"What do you think, Matt? Fast and painful or slow and agonizing?"

"In this case I think that slow and agonizing is more appropriate, don't you?"

"I do." Then he turned and walked to the center of the clearing, summoning Haynes to him with a casual wave of his hand.

Haynes approached menacingly—slowly, shifting his weight ponderously from side to side, as he stepped closer and closer. He clasped his hands together and cracked his knuckles as if that would intimidate someone like Daryl Evans. If there was one thing a former military policeman was sure to remember for the rest of his/her life it was the lessons in hand-to-hand combat—lessons drilled in through hours and hours of repetition.

Perhaps Haynes thought that he would catch Daryl by surprise with a roundhouse right. I relived my own training when I saw Daryl step inside the punch with his forearm angled up and away from his body. Haynes haymaker flew harmlessly over Daryl's head while he ducked under and behind his lumbering opponent. Darryl took a quick step away and halfway there he paused to deliver a hard elbow to Haynes' right kidney. Any more of those and Haynes would piss blood for a week.

Basically, Daryl's strategy was to bob and weave and strike when the opportunity was present. In and out he moved, slapping and punching the bigger man's face and body, but receiving nothing back but lumbering blows that fell harmlessly short or long of Daryl's body. I appreciated Daryl's strategy because before ten minutes had passed Haynes could barely move due to his exhaustion. Now Daryl gave him the coup de grace—rapidly punching his face and, when he had raised his hands, going for the big man's body.

After less than five minutes of that Haynes stumbled to his knees and he couldn't get up again. Two state troopers stepped forward to handcuff the gasping, struggling man who was beyond resistance. They led him out past Daryl and me and he just couldn't resist a jibe. "I would've gotten you in a fair fight." I would have laughed had the situation not been so pathetic. This man couldn't beat Daryl if he'd had a club. Daryl and I had sparred many times and I'd beaten him fewer than a dozen, but then, I had him by fifty pounds, just like Jeremy Haynes. The difference was—my weight was muscle and his was flabby fat.

We used the same forklift they had used to return the pallets of drugs to the trailer, but we're clueless about the state of the huge diesel engine until the two drivers from the Bascomb mine came forward to check it. Once they had the massive hood up they leaned in to check the block. One of them pointed to an ooze of vibrant yellow that they identified as antifreeze. "Crack in the block," the taller one said. "Mr. Bascomb told us to phone a number if we needed a tractor or a tow truck. If I call them now they should be able to get here in an hour or so." I gave him the okay and after the calls he and the other driver removed their ore carriers en route back to the mine. These trucks were so big that they needed a special "WIDE LOAD" permit and smaller vehicles ahead and behind in order to travel on the highways.

We had timed our raid almost perfectly because only three of what looked to be thirty palettes had been unloaded. Since the quarry was in the City of Bascomb's Landing this was technically my investigation, however I was more than happy to turn all of the drugs over to the DEA and State Police. I had limited lab facilities to examine and verify the types of drugs confiscated although from preliminary examination there appeared to be mostly pills—oxycontin and other opioids—and cocaine with about a ton of baled marijuana added in. I knew that the payment had been more than a million dollars so I anticipated that the street value would be four or five times that amount, at least. From what I was told everything would be tested, identified, and assigned a street value. I was glad to see the trailer pulled away, attached to a new tractor with DEA vehicles ahead and behind, their blue and red lights flashing.

I closed and locked the quarry, understanding that the state would send crime scene investigators as soon as possible. I handed the key to my counterpart from the state police who congratulated me on a successful operation. "Yeah--successful in that we arrested one former chief, one lieutenant, and two patrolmen. That's just great, isn't it?" I shook my head and he joined me. No police officer enjoys seeing officers arrested for corruption. That just undermines all of our authority and community confidence.

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