Eyes wide, mouth open, One was obviously mesmerized. “But why, if you liked it, did you leave the Army?”
“That,” said Hess, “is another story. But here’s the Reader’s Digest version: On leave, returning from a Hawaii vacation with my wife and eight-month-old son. Got to LAX around 1 a.m. Then drove home. Exited Interstate 15 and took Temecula Road south. Not much lighting along that road. I entered an intersection on a greenlight. Got T-boned. A BMW without headlights. The sonof-a-bitch ran directly into the passenger side of our car at 50 miles per hour. Killed my wife, in the right seat, instantly. And my baby… strapped into the safety seat behind her.”
“My God.”
“God had nothing to do with it. I ended up in a hospital—shattered right ankle. They fixed it with rods and pins after sewing ligaments together for six hours.”
“What about the son-of-a-bitch in the BMW?”
“Essentially unhurt. Airbag. A seventeen-year-old drummer. Returning from a gig—drunk. On drugs. His liberal-ass divorced parents let him do anything he pleased. They hired an expensive lawyer. Got the booze and drug evidence suppressed on a technicality. Then a liberal-ass judge let him go for time served and a slap on the wrist, as if fuckin’ blind to what he did.”
“What did you do?”
“Quit the Army. Started drifting. A lot of nothing. No one. Then I met the friends who changed my life. Neo-Nazis. Members of the National Socialist Group. They gave me purpose, a sense of family. And helped me file a civil suit against that drummer and his family.”
“What happened with the lawsuit?”
“Another judge threw it out. Beyond the statute of limitations, he said. Not filed soon enough. And then back at NSG I eventually became Western Training Officer.”
“Ever hear more about the BMW driver?”
“Let’s just say, he and his liberal-ass parents died in a freak accident. Those two liberal-ass judges too.”
One nodded and took a loud slurp of his drink. “I see.”
“Yeah, I think you do,” said Hess. “But now, I need to get something done outside. So, no more questions. Just stay put.”
Dusk. The sun almost down. Hess jumped from the truck into a purple-hued desert with long deep shadows, all helter-skelter, bushes, and giant cacti, standing five to eight feet high. The nearby rocks and huge boulders, even the sandy ground, had that same violet tinge. Nice night, thought Hess, for what has to be done. Then, he turned and took a large burlap bag from under the driver’s seat. Hess noticed One watching, probably wondering why he needed a bag like that for a simple shit in the desert, but the boy knew better than to ask.
By the time Hess got back to the truck, it was pitch black. One had dozed off. Hess put the burlap bag in the truck bed and got behind the steering wheel. He fell asleep himself, after setting the alarm on his black Seiko for 3 a.m.
At 4 a.m., Hess pulled the truck into another drive-thru lane at a 24-hour fast food restaurant. They got egg sandwiches, coffee, and orange juice and ate in the parking lot.
“Eat fast,” said Hess, munching on his egg sandwich. “I want to be in the bastard’s face, before sunrise.”
CHAPTER 41
They kidnapped the judge, right out of his bed, well before the first glimmer of sun broke the horizon on Sunday morning.
The judge had a pencil-thin gray mustache, and closely cropped gray hair around the back of his head and above his ears, setting off a bald crown. He was small, thin, and looked ridiculous in his oversized black sleep mask. Wearing deerskin gloves, Hess sat at the side of his queen-sized bed. He slipped off the judge’s blue sheets. White t-shirt and plaid boxer shorts, thought Hess. Shitty sissy clothing. Hess put his big right hand over the judge’s nose, chin, and throat, and yanked the sleep mask off with his left hand. Sayor’s blue eyes bulged. Hess tightened his grip, just enough to almost choke off all air.
As they had planned, One turned the light on at the judge’s nightstand. Hess stuck his right index finger an inch from the judge’s eyes and commanded, “Silence. Or you die.” Hess then slipped his right hand down to the judge’s throat. One plastered a six-inch piece of red stucco tape over his mouth. With no hesitation, Hess pulled the judge from bed by his throat and chin, and pushed him to One, who grabbed the judge in a vice grip. Hess crossed the room, rummaged the judge’s closet, and threw out a short-sleeved shirt, hiking shorts and tennis shoes. He ordered Sayor to dress and then demanded the keys to the judge’s Lexus RX 300 SUV in the driveway. Once he had the keys, Hess wrapped the judge’s eyes and mouth multiple times with the red tape and cuffed the judge’s hands behind his back with a strong plastic tie. He then slammed a baseball cap on the judge’s head, pulling its bill low over his eyes. Then they marched him out to his midnight-blue Lexus. With his sweatshirt hood up, sunglasses on and shoulders slightly rounded and forward, for any nosy neighbors, Hess ushered the judge into the passenger seat. He then walked around the vehicle, slipped behind the wheel, and motioned One to follow in the vintage truck. The Lexus and Hess’ truck crept down the driveway. Then both slipped quietly into the street.
An hour later, they stopped south of Phoenix in an isolated stretch of desert peppered by rocky terrain, low bushes, and patches of slender grass. The sun, just rising, cast low-angled red rays and long shadows across the landscape. Hess yanked the judge from the Lexus and threw him to the ground. The baseball cap fell off his head, and Hess ripped the red tape from around his eyes and mouth. Obviously suppressing pain, squinting, and trying to orient himself, Judge Sayor said, “What the hell is this all about? For God’s sake, what is this?”
Hess, standing over him with a gun, cut him off. “You asshole. Traitor. This is what you get for disloyalty. You don’t join His Eminence, and then quit.”
“Goddammit,” said the judge, sitting up on the desert floor, “I issued that opinion you wanted. Dismissed the dead pilot’s case. What else do you want from me? Like I said, I won’t do it again. I don’t care what you tell the press about my sexual preferences. Or nights at gay bars. I don’t give a damn. Tell it like it is. I won’t be your goddamn puppet.”
“Shut up. I don’t give a shit whether or not you take it in the ass. Sit, don’t fuckin’ move. Stay absolutely still. Or I’ll shoot you in the head and bury you so deep you’ll be below water level.” Pointing at One, Hess added, “That’s why I brought him along, for digging.”
Hess handed his 9mm Glock to One, with a wink, saying, “If he moves, if he even breathes too much, shoot him in the leg. I have to get something.”
Hess then went to his truck. He returned with the molded plastic “Big Drink” cup, a stick, some wire and the burlap bag. He placed everything on the ground, and walked around the objects, putting his back to Sayor and One. Shielding them from view. Hess crouched, tied a loop of wire to the stick and lifted the bag so its bottom remained on the ground. He opened the drawstring at its top and used the stick and wire to grab and lift. Then he switched the stick to his left hand and clutched with his right. Dropping the stick, he closed off the bag with his left hand, and placed it on the ground. Hess then turned to face the others. A deadly four-foot snake writhed in his right hand. Hess then squeezed the brown and black reptile behind its flat triangular-shaped head. The snake’s mouth opened wide, followed by an electric buzzing sound. Then, two three-quarter inch fangs popped from its upper jaw. Hess walked over and leaned in front of the judge.
“Judge—this is a Western Diamondback Rattlesnake. This one is a bit small; some grow to seven feet. But look, it has fine fangs.” Wide-eyed, both Judge Sayor and One fixated on the deadly creature.
“You can’t do this. I’m a federal judge. The FBI won’t stop. They’ll hunt you down. Slam you in prison. You’ll rot. Forever.”
“Judge, judge, judge,” said Hess in a patronizing tone as the snake continued to twist like a corkscrew, “the FBI can’t chase what they don’t know. That’s the beauty of all this. And even if, let’s just say, they catch me, I’ll probably skate on a technicality. You know how that works, right?”
“You son of a bitch.”
Hess squeezed the snake again, just behind its head. It made a guttural sound from the depths of hell. Fangs dropped from its upper jaw. “Now notice the white and black bands, just below its rattler. That tells ya it’s the real thing. A pit viper. Lethal hemotoxic venom.”
Sayor glared up at Hess. “Go to hell.”
“No.” Hess shoved the snake closer to Sayor. The judge recoiled and One jumped back, stumbled, and dropped the Glock, tripped on a rock, and fell on his ass. Hess, turned on him, shouting, “Get up you fool. Or I’ll put the snake on you, instead of this shithead. And, while you’re at it, put tape back on this fucker’s mouth. I’m tired of listening to him.”
One jumped up, grabbed the gun, got the tape, and slammed a strip on Sayor’s mouth. Then he backed up, far from the snake, and retrained the pistol on Sayor. Hess focused on the judge, who now looked pathetic, like a terrified puppy.
“You know,” said Hess, shaking his head slightly back and forth, “you really should wear boots and long pants in the desert. Hiking shorts. Tennis shoes, without socks. They don’t give you the protection you need.” Hess pushed on the snake’s head. Stooped forward. Put the snake’s mouth just in front of the judge’s lower left leg and let go. In an instant, the snake struck. Latched on. Planted two long fangs into the judge’s flesh. Sayor’s screams were muffled by the red tape over his mouth. A moment later, the snake folded back its fangs, and slithered quickly through the sandy desert to a nearby rocky area. Hess watched it go. He had a soft spot for snakes. Most of them, in his opinion, didn’t deserve disdain. They only did what they had to.
Hess turned to Sayor. “Damn,” he said, calling One over with a curled index finger. “Look, the snake bit the judge.” As One neared, the two puncture wounds were swelling, and turning purplish-red from internal bleeding. The judge, topped over on his right side, moaning.
“Here’s the thing,” Hess said, “the venom will destroy the tissue around the bite. Then, attack the heart muscle. Death will follow. Oh, there’ll be some intense burning pain too. But here’s the real problem: Death from a single viper bite can take 6 to 48 hours. We just don’t have that kind of time, do we?”
One, taking the hint, said loudly, “No. We’ve got to get going.”
