The assistant looked hesitant. “How?”
“We planned, now we execute. Lesson Three: Never, ever, leave a trace. Like eagles, we swoop in, snatch the fuckin’ eggs, and disappear. It’s all about planning. Precision. But enough training. Right now, go wait in the truck. I’ll take it from here.”
As his assistant turned toward the door, Hess put on sunglasses, hunched at the shoulders and headed to a blackjack table near the judge. He sat down, to keep an eye on him, pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his coat pocket, slid it to the dealer and asked for chips. After an hour of playing, Flynn ordered another O.J and Stoli and said to his dealer, “My lady, keep those beautiful cards coming because soon, real soon, I’ll have to take a break. After sixty, nature calls much more often.”
Hearing that, Hess stopped playing, pushed away from the table and walked to the very back of the casino, turning down a long white hallway leading to restrooms. Near the end of the corridor, he strolled into the Men’s Room, marked Hombres, and washed his hands. No one here, he thought. Hess took off his sunglasses, slipped on tight deerskin gloves, and parked inside a stall, ticking time away.
Eight minutes later Flynn arrived. He rushed to a urinal, put his drink on the white porcelain top of the next one to the left and did his thing below. Then he yanked his zipper and reached for his drink. At that moment, Hess wrapped his arm around Flynn’s neck, like a nutcracker, yanked the judge up and away from the urinal and choked off his air. Hess moved so quickly he caught the judge’s glass with his left hand before it could fall and shatter. Continuing to choke with his right arm, he dropped the glass in a nearby trash can. Then he dragged the judge, now unconscious, to the bathroom door. Hess whipped a small wedge from his pocket, stooped, and jammed it at the sill. Straightening up, he spotted himself in a long mirror by the sinks. He had a six-foot frame of rock-solid muscle, broad shoulders, and stamina, even in his late 40s, to bench press 350 pounds. On top, short dark-blond hair, combed straight down at the sides. No fuss. And from far away, by stooping his shoulders and lowering his head, he looked like any older man. Yet, up close, with a cold stare and pallid blue eyes, he intimidated like a gunfighter about to pull iron. Not a pretty boy, he thought. Never the fuck wanted to be.
Hess quickly turned, reached into Flynn’s pocket, and pulled out the judge’s Volvo keys. Dropping them in his own pants pocket, he then pulled four items from the deeper pockets of his navy pea coat: A small roll of two-inch wide red stucco tape that left no visible residue, two long plastic zip ties, and a folded navy duffel bag. His cheeks creased in a quick smile as he smothered the judge’s mouth with the tape. Then he cuffed Flynn’s hands behind his back and feet together with the ties. Hess cinched firmly, but not enough to leave marks. Then he opened the huge duffel bag, rolled the judge’s body into it, and hauled the bag upright. Stuffing the tape roll in the bag, he turned to the door, pulled the wedge out and slipped it next to the tape. Hess yanked the drawstrings closed. He grinned a bit while patting the Glock 9-millimeter pistol stuck in his rear waistband under his coat. Ready to go.
Hess heaved the bag onto his shoulder and opened the door. He stooped a bit and turned right, down the hallway. In his knit cap, pea coat, T-shirt, and jeans, he looked like a typical industrial worker in Southern California. Who would ever guess he had a fuckin’ judge in the bag and a Glock 9 at 6 o’clock?
Hess casually glanced back and forth as he walked through the huge delivery doors and out into the rear parking lot. No one saw him, and to his surprise, his choke hold kept Flynn unconscious longer than expected. Without a word, he dumped Flynn in the trunk of the judge’s car, got behind the wheel, and signaled his assistant to follow in the truck. They were headed to a pre-selected spot, an hour east of San Diego, deep in the San Jacinto Mountains.
A half hour later, the judge began to thrash around in the trunk. So what, thought Hess. Who’s going to hear the bastard at 60 miles-per-hour? Turning up the volume on his favorite radio show, he heard, “National healthcare? It’s for sissy radical-left bleeding buttholes.” Hess cracked a smile, thought about how much he loved that show and continued his drive into the mountains.
When they arrived, no one was around. As expected. It was a remote area serviced only by one two-lane paved forest service road. Hess signaled his assistant to wait. He maneuvered the judge’s old Volvo far off-road into a thicket of huge pines—trees so dense their trunks and branches created a curtain, shutting off the outside world. On one side, just another sunny day, but in the thicket—dark, dingy, damp. Hess, always one with nature, loved it. He got out and opened the trunk. Then he heaved the bag up and threw it on a ground of rocks and wet pine needles. Flynn, inside the bag, tried to stretch out. “Dammit.” Hess kicked the bag, “Stay still, or I’ll put a bullet in your head.”
The judge continued struggling but, rather than shoot him, Hess helped the poor guy out. Opening the bag, he pulled Flynn up and out from behind. He bent down and ripped the tape from the judge’s mouth. The man sat motionless for a second. Then with a roaring red face, he cranked his neck to look back at Hess. When Hess saw the judge’s eyes, he knew Flynn thought all was lost.
“Calvin Hess,” Flynn choked out.
Hess felt his teeth grind. His lips tightened. Only his mother or his wife ever called him Calvin. “Stow it, Flynn. Just, Hess.”
“Hess,” said the judge.
“Enough small talk. You had two chances in Vegas. And only because His Eminence insisted. Personally, I would have finished you at the second get-together. You should remember, we’re on deadline. Less than three weeks to pull everything together. But look—water under the bridge. In America, three strikes and you’re out. So yes or no. That’s all I wanta hear from you.” Hess glared. “What’s it going to be?”
“Why in God’s name are you doing this?”
“Why, why, why—always has to be a damn reason. Look, we need real justice. For everyone. Rules set. Followed. No surprises. No deviations. No stinkin’ juries. It’ll change America.”
“Rules? How are you following rules?”
Hess squinted. “Me? I don’t have to follow them. I just have to fix the damn system. But also,” Hess shrugged, “truth is, I love what I do. And get paid well to do it. It’s the American dream.”
“But why me? Why now?”
“Because you failed. Didn’t follow directives. Showed no allegiance. And bottom line: We can’t tolerate that. Look, I understand why you’re upset. But if we make an exception for you, what can we expect from the others? You’re the example. I’ve got to do what I have to do.”
“You’re fuckin’ crazy.”
Hess grinned. “Not crazy, just highly motivated.”
“You piece of horseshit,” Flynn blurted out as he began to struggle for his life. “People depend on me. Take His Eminence and shove the sonofabitch where the sun won’t shine. You motherfu—.”
Before Flynn could finish, Hess bent down, hooked Flynn’s neck with his right hand, and choked him silent. Hess stood, shook his head, and whispered, “Didn’t think you’d cooperate.” Then he thought about his dead wife and child. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his green laser pointer. Kneeling on one knee next to Flynn, he slapped the judge until he began to revive. As the judge’s eyes opened, Hess fired the laser pointer into his right eye. The man’s eyes instinctively squeezed shut, but Hess pulled Flynn’s left eyelid up and fired again.
“I can’t see,” Flynn screamed. “Christ, what have you done? I can’t see!”
“One final point, Judge Flynn. Blind justice ain’t no fuckin’ justice at all.” It was just temporary, flash blindness but Flynn didn’t need to know that. Hess choked the judge senseless with an arm hold, covered Flynn’s mouth with red tape, and stood, disappointed with the next part of the plan. Not that it wouldn’t work. He’d devised the plan, after all, so he knew it would work. But Hess was disgusted with Flynn, wanted to do him right there. Smash his head. Bury him so far, so deep, no one would ever find the asshole. But no. His Eminence wanted his death to look like an accident or suicide. Just like the others. So Hess dragged the judge over to the Volvo and stuffed him into the front passenger seat. As planned, he drove the car further east down the road, with cliffs to his right, until he got to a nearby curve. Halfway around, he drove straight off the road onto the shoulder. It was perfect. A slight downhill near the cliff’s edge. He put the car in Park, left the engine on and brake off. He’d picked that spot carefully. Remote. Sharp curve. Steep cliff. Jagged rocks below.
Hess got out of the Volvo and pulled Flynn still unconscious from the car. Lifting him under the arms, he carried the judge to the other side and stuffed him quickly into the driver’s seat. He clicked Flynn into his safety belt. For realism. Then cut off the plastic ties at the judge’s hands and feet and pulled Flynn’s arms forward. Finally, he peeled the red tape from the judge’s mouth. He then leaned down across Flynn and put the transmission back in Drive. Pulling himself from the car quickly, he shut the door, stepped around the back and pushed the vehicle forward with his gloved hands.
“Sayonara sucker.” Peering over the edge, he watched as the Volvo careened down the cliff. With thuds, it crashed into boulders, somersaulted several times, and smashed into rocks below. “Shit. Shit.” Dust and debris were strewn everywhere, but Hess walked away grumbling. “No fuckin’ fire. Wanted him to light up like the Fourth of July.”
He then bent over, picked up a fallen pine branch, and swept away any trace of his presence. Next, he walked about fifty yards further east on the road and turned into the forest where his assistant had parked the truck. Hess went over to the truck and told his assistant to shove over. He jumped in and moved the truck to the edge of the road. Then he said, “Lesson Four: Watch how it’s done.” Pulling out a rake from the truck bed, Hess groomed the area back to the parking spot, eliminating all tire marks and footprints. But just then Hess noticed the ants. Large red ants—like those in his ant farm back at the house. They always stuck together, like family. Hess loved them. Why not? They worked hard, asked no questions, and followed their leader—no matter what. Stooping down, he spotted three he had mistakenly stepped on. Dead. Didn’t deserve it. The right corner of Hess’ thin lips rose. He gulped and his eyes welled a bit.
He pulled himself together and searched left and right on the ground. Pleased to see they were the only ones not scurrying around, Hess made three one-inch holes in the dirt with his index finger. Then he placed each tiny body in its own grave, covered them with soil and words of regret, and walked back to the truck.
He jumped in behind the wheel and turned to his assistant. Glaring, he didn’t need to say the words, didn’t need to tell him to forget about that last part. Hess backtracked west on the road to where he and Flynn had briefly talked things over. Again, using his rake, he eliminated all tire marks. Foot tracks. And any other evidence on the ground that he, Flynn, or the Volvo had ever been there. Pleased to have completed the mission, but still sad about the ants, Hess decided to ride down off the mountain and grab an early lunch—a huge burger, maybe two, and large fries—at the first fast food restaurant. Flynn went well, but killing the ants sucked. He needed something to get back on track.
As Hess drove along the flat streets searching for food, his assistant was eager to talk. “First time I’ve been in your new truck. Nice. Really nice.”
Glad to get his mind off the ants, Hess smiled. He loved his 1950 three-quarter ton Chevy with rounded fenders and pristine leather seats. “Yeah. Added two fifteen-gallon tanks. Retro style, latest Nav system and, of course, police monitor.”
“Sweet.”
“Bet your ass.”
Hess turned up the police radio. “Gibberish. Cops here are idiots. And the park rangers with the Yogi Bear hats? Even bigger idiots. Total assholes.”
As Hess steered left toward the freeway entrance, he spotted a Big Burger Restaurant, swung a hard right, and pulled into the drive-in lane. After ordering, he pulled into a parking space to sit in the truck and eat.
“It smells terrific,” Hess said on a deep inhale, “especially the fuckin’ fries.” He sank his teeth into the Double-Double Burger, like a lion devouring a downed zebra, and listened to a rescue call by a helicopter on the police monitor.
