Part Sixteen
Things were kind of tense. It was Friday morning, 0030 hours, and Agent French was on his way. He was coming right to my safehouse, and it was a big gamble on my part.
Would he try to doublecross me? After all, I planned on doublecrossing
him. He was supposed to arrive with one other guy, to trade the truck for a million dollar check. I wondered if he'd come crashing through the door, leading an ATF hit squad or something.
On the other hand, he was going to try to keep it low profile, too. He was, after all, an even bigger criminal than I. A big gun battle in the middle of our sleeply little town wouldn't do either of us any good, and I'm sure he was aware of that.
On the
other-other hand, I doubted he'd actually be able to come up with a million dollars. He was just a mid-level bureaucrat, after all; unless he was engaged in illegal dealings that I didn't know about, he'd have trouble coming up with that kind of scratch.
On another hand altogether, it was very possible that he DID have that kind of money in reserve. After all, I only kept tabs on Frenchy to the extent that was relevant to me; I didn't have spies following him around, monitoring his activities night and day. Perhaps I should have. I sighed, and rubbed my temples. Skulduggery gives me a headache.
Nonetheless, it was best to be prepared. So, I got some guys together and set up a defensive plan of the warehouse. Now, the warehouse is a large, rectangular building. It's big enough for the shipping crate, the tractor-trailer, and my car, all parked end-to-end. My car was safely parked elsewhere, so there was room enough for whatever car French was driving.
Ringing the interior of the warehouse was a metal catwalk, about fifteen feet off of the floor. Two sets of metal stairs led up to the catwalk, and at the far end of the place (opposite the big door) was the little office I mentioned earlier. On the left side of an office I had mounted a bright spotlight, to illuminate the door. Pretty dramatic, hey?
What this gave you was a nice, elevated position where you could get intersecting fire without having to worry about hitting your buddies. Ideal ambush setup. Still, I was likely to be outnumbered in the event French brought some kind of raiding party, so I had plan carefully. I had friends this time, though.
These friends were co-workers of mine, people I trusted. There weren't a lot of people that I really let in on my safehouse and other trade secrets. My biggest secret of all, of course, is how I run an operation like this virtually alone, and I'm not going to tell. But, there are people I can trust.
Of course, there was Corwin. He was on the right side of the office, carrying an
M16A4 rifle fitted with an
M203 40mm grenade launcher. Might seem like overkill for the short range involved, but 5.56mm's poor penetration proved useful in a situation like this. The M203 was loaded with one of those oversized buckshot rounds, but he had a variety of shells with him.
Corwin was dressed casually, I guess, since he wasn't wearing his fedora. He was, however, adorned in all-black attire, complete with a waist-length winter-weight leather coat, gloves, and a black sweater. (He did, however, blend in very well to the darkened corner of the warehouse.)
Manning the spotlight was my buddy Jamal, a large, imposing African-American figure. In his mid-30s and a retired Speical Forces, Jamal helped me from time to time and had a lot of friends in the Special Forces community (it was through him that I met Mackie). He had slung over his shoulder an
H&K G3KA4 .308 carbine. I hoped he wouldn't have to touch that sucker off; a 12" barreled .308 rifle would surely be loud indoors!
Above the door with a Russian
Bizon submachine gun was Hooper, a lanky Sicilian with a weird sense of humor and thoroughly-styled hair (he uses product). Hooper is a somewhat disgruntled former Secret Service agent who lost his job after letting Jimmy Carter get pied in the face. I don't know what led him to the underground economy, but he and I became good friends and he brings me customers from the Federal Government from time to time (all strictly under the table, of course).
Finally, on the left side of the catwalk, about midway between the door and the office, was my old friend Dave. I had known Dave for almost as long as I had known Corwin. It was rare that I asked him to do run and gun stuff with me (hell, it was rare that I had to do run and gun stuff; it had been a rough couple of weeks!), but this was an urgent situation. He sported a
Mossberg 590A1 shotgun and had a healthy mix of buckshot and slugs.
Despite my best efforts, I was unable to convince Ling to hide in the bunker this time. She was determined to see the man that had been responsible for her fall. I was, however, able to coax her to at least hide in the darkened office. Since she was behind the spotlight, there's no way anybody on the warehouse floor would see here there, and she'd get a good view. I hoped to hell that shooting didn't erupt, though; the walls of the mini-office were thin and wouldn't stop bullets.
I told Ling to monitor the closed-circut TV screen in the office. It was connected to a camera on the roof, that covered the approach to the door of the warehouse. She was to signal Corwin when she saw a vehicle approaching, and he would notify me via a compact whisper-radio.
I waited on the warehouse floor, behind the truck. I was wearing a Level IIIA ballistic vest under my jacket, in case somebody started shooting. I had a 3" barreled
Ruger SP101, a five-shot, .357 Revolver in a small-of-back holster, concealed underneath my jacket, in case
I needed to start shooting.
The pieces were all set. I stood there, alone in the darkness, awaiting the arrival of French. He was due any minute, and the seconds ticked away painfully slowly. Finally, though, Corwin's whispered voice sounded in my earpiece.
"Mike...we've got company. One large black van, no windows on the side. One man in the driver's seat, one man int he passneger's seat. Could be empty, could be six guys in the back."
"Gotcha." My heart was racing. This was it. A second later, I heard the van pull to a stop outside of the door, and its horn honked five times. That was the signal. I used my remote control to open the door of the warehouse. Slowly, the door raised, and the van entered. When it was in, I pressed the button to lower the door again.
It was a black van alright. It came to a stop about ten feet from the nose of the tractor-trailer, its headlights shining on the chrome grill of the big-rig. They were waiting for me. I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and stepped from behind the trailer. I made my way to the front of the truck, and stood there, with the glare of the headlights reflecting off of my glasses.
The van's engine was shut off, and a man got out of the passenger's seat. He walked between the van and the truck, and stood in front of me. Even though the light was at his back, and his face was dark, I instantly recognized the grim face of Special Agent Francis French, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. I smiled.
"Well good evening, Mr. French," I said, beaming, putting on a show. He chuckled sardonically.
"You never give up, do you?" He said. "You're just a kid who think's he's tough."
"Enough small talk, Frenchy," I retorted flatly. "Where's my money?"
"In the van. Let me see the inside of the trailer first. After I've verified that the..." I cut him off by drawing my revolver and pointing it straight between his eyes. I stepped back as I did so, so as to be out of arm's reach.
"Get down on your knees and place your hands behind your head." He looked stunned, and didn't move.
"DO IT!" I screamed, and he complied. As he did so, the man in the driver's seat of the van jumped out, and pointed an
MP5SD at me. I noticed a dot from a laser aiming device on my chest, and sighed. A second later, the back doors of the van burst open, and three more guys with the suppressed submachine guns jumped out. Three more laser dots appeared on my chest, and I held my breath.
A split second later, the spotlight was turned on, illuminating the van and the five black-clad, submachine gun-bearing figures. Dave racked the pump on his shotgun, and that unmistakable sound echoed through the warehouse. French's men looked up into the spotlight, aiming their weapons into the darkness, unable to see where the threat was coming from. They were blinded by the light, and crouched down.
I mustered my nerve and spoke calmly.
"Put your weapons down, or my men will open fire. You're covered from an elevated position and are outnumbered." The ninjas didn't seem to be listening.
"PUT YOUR [EXPLETIVE DELETED]-ING WEAPONS DOWN OR YOU'RE ALL GOING TO DIE, DAMN IT!" I yelled, and the four men all looked back at me again. I still had my revolver covering French, who remained on his knees in front of me, but I was slowly backing away, to try to get behind the truck again.
"DO IT!" French yelled an instant later. The men looked around one last time, and finally complied. Each one laid his submachine gun down. They each unholstered a
Glock 17 pistol and laid it on the deck as well.
"GOOD..." I said. "NOW GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES AND PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS!" The men looked around at each other again, but did as I ordered them.
"Okay, turn on the lights," I told Corwin through the radio. A moment later, the bright top lights of the warehouse flickered to life, illuminating the room. I squinted in the light, but kept French covered. He and his men looked around, bewildered to realized that they weren't really outnumbered after all. There were, however, two rifles, a shotgun, a submachine gun, and my .357 trained on them, and their weapons were laying on the floor. French's jaw about hit the floor.
"Now yours, French," I said. "Unholster your sidearm and place it on the deck. Don't do anything stupid." French did as I asked, seemingly in a state of near-shock. He laid his own piece, a Glock 19, on the floor.
It took us awhile to get everything sorted out, but eventually we lined them all up against one wall of the warehouse, and sat them down. Their hands were zip-tied behind their backs and their feet were zip-tied together, so they weren't mobile. Their weapons went into my pile of things to be resold later. A search of the van revealed that there was no chashier's check; French hadn't held up his end of the agreement.
Fortunately, I hadn't held up my end, either.
So there I was, pacing up and down in front of French and his four guys. Having relieved his men of their masks, I started my interrogation with them.
They told me they were all junior ATF agents that French had recruited. Apparently, he had gotten at least two of them in despite criminal records. One admitted to doing coke with French.
Every time they told me something, French yelled and cussed, but they were pretty forthcoming. French screamed that I wasn't going to do anything, and that they should shut up (and he was right, I wasn't going to hurt them), but the muzzle of my little stainless .357 was more convincing. I only got so much out of them before French's protests really got on my nerves.
"What do you think you're going to do, huh? HUH? Kidnapping a Federal Agent, holding him hostage at gunpoint...you're going to do HARD TIME, BUCK-O!" Much like Richie Cunningham, you can tell French is really mad when he calls you
buck-o.
Before I could answer, Ling appeared. She walked slowly up the row of prisoners, and stopped at my left side. French was suddenly quiet. I guess Ling just had that effect on people.
"Is this him?" she asked me.
"Yep," I replied.
"You..." she said to French.
"W..who are you?" he asked.
"You ruined my life, Agent French," she replied, and turned to walk away. French just looked bewildered.
A split second later, Ling wheeled back around again, her Sig P239 in hand. I was able to grab her hand and force the muzzle up just in the nick of time; the report of the pistol was ear-splitting, and my five prisoners cowered down on the floor. I looked around and noticed Corwin had his Beretta drawn, and trained on Ling.
My hands still on her pistol, Ling looked over at me. She jerked away, and stood there staring at French. Her pistol was still in her hand, and Corwin still had her covered from behind.
"He....it's his fault," she said, the venom in her voice more potent than ever.
"Ling, calm down," I said, trying not to provoke her. I supposed that if I were her, I'd have been pretty pissed to, but jeez. Ling just stared at French, then looked up at me. My revolver was still in my hand, but I didn't have it pointed at anyone.
A few agonizing seconds later, Ling's gaze shifted downward. She decocked her pistol, holstered it, and walked away without saying a word.
My ears still ringing, I looked down at French, and up at the bullet hole in the wall about ten feet over his head. I looked down at the hot piece of 9mm brass laying on the floor to my right. I sighed.
It had been a long, and tiresome night, but everything had gone according to plan.
"So what are you going to do with us?" French asked at last.
I just turned and walked away. I had Corwin put a bag over the head of each prisoner. Once the bags were in place, he shot each one of them in the thigh with one of my tranqulizer guns, rendering the prisoner unconscious.
The mission successful, the prisoners dealt with, I asked Corwin to stand watch while I went into the bunker and got some sleep. It had been a long night, and I was sure I had an even longer one ahead of me...
TO BE CONTINUED...
) and it had to be reposted by the admins - i just hit the "subscribe" link at the bottom to make sure I get my notifications.
