Hess, shaking his head, scrambled to his feet and rushed across the room just as the other prisoner threw himself at his legs, tripping him again. This time, Hess went down hard, but he sprang up like an enraged grizzly and whacked the sonofabitch across the face with the back of his pistol. As the prisoner’s head struck the floor—which was unfortunately covered in a thick oriental rug—Hess ran to the window, aimed at the running SOB, and shot, again and again.
“Goddamnit!” Three rushed in from the kitchen as Hess shouted, “I think I got ’em, but the fucker’s still running. Can’t chase the little shit now. Too much to do. Too little time. Maybe the sonofabitch will go somewhere, curl up, and fuckin’ die.”
“Will he go to the police?” Three asked.
“He can’t go to the cops. They were the ones trespassing. At a judge’s house, no less. Fuck him. Let’s get the other two up and moving. Head back out to the Camp and give ’em both what’s comin’ to ’em.”
CHAPTER 62
Late Friday morning, Ridge sat in downtown L.A., thinking. Some things in life were just painful, maybe necessary, but really, really painful. There was no way of getting around them. Like the dentist and a root canal. Or, he supposed, giving birth. Somewhere in-between came taking translated depositions of Japanese-speaking engineers, especially three in a row. That’s where Ridge, The Great Litigator, found himself. Sometimes, he figured, you can’t help but think someone’s out to get you. With everything happening lately, and now this, that time was now. He was feeling trapped.
But he took solace in the fact that these depos were part of the Good Fight. Ridge’s client, Heather Bautista, was one of three children waiting for a school bus when a Toyota vehicle suddenly jumped a curb. All were hurt, and doctors did what they could for nine-year-old Heather’s left leg, but despite six operations and months of therapy, Heather would remain in pain and limping for the rest of her life.
The legal issue in the case was whether an all-weather mat had moved into the gas pedal and caused unwanted acceleration. Ridge also had to establish what Toyota engineers knew, at the time of the crash, about the mat’s propensity to do that. The mats had been recalled afterwards, but evidence of that subsequent recall was inadmissible, in order not to discourage manufacturer recalls. So, off to translated depositions they all went. When Ridge asked his first question in English, his interpreter had to invert it, due to differences in sentence structure between the languages, and state it in Japanese. Then Toyota’s translator had an argument in Japanese with Ridge’s interpreter about the correct translation of certain words. When that was sorted out, the agreed-to translation was posed to the witness in Japanese.
As the witness mulled the question, Toyota’s attorney interjected a belated objection for the record—which then had to be translated by the dueling translators, after which the witness could finally answer—in Japanese, of course. But instead of answering, the witness asked Ridge to repeat the question, and they went through the whole ordeal again. Then the translators argued in Japanese about how to properly translate into English what the witness said, and finally—the agreed-to English version of the testimony was spoken in English by Ridge’s translator, so the court reporter could type the answer into the record. The real problem was, as was typical in these depositions, by the time Ridge got the answer in English, he had forgotten the question, let alone the objection.
After hour upon hour of this, even better minds started to gel over, and the headache pain could be tremendous. And God forbid anyone should have to use a document to pin down a witness on a particular point. The whole document typically would have to be translated by the dueling translators for the Japanese witness, before he could even start to answer—in Japanese, of course. Normally, Ridge could take it. But today he was just tired, damned tired. He somehow had lived through it all on Thursday. But this morning, the second day of the Japanese depositions, he’d rather be getting an emergency root canal or delivering a baby. Or both. At the same time. His head was pounding that bad. Maybe I could schedule an emergency teeth cleaning. He reached for his phone. He could hand this whole depo business over to Brenda Jameson, his intrepid associate. She could take over for him. She, of course, could give birth. But she wasn’t pregnant. And her teeth were just about perfect. So, she had no excuses. And too, she was good, really good. She’s a star, thought Ridge. I should tell her that more often. Honestly, he felt punch drunk. He reached for his phone to text Brenda, even though she was sitting next to him, just to tell her she was a rising star, when a text message popped up from Terry: “Eric—need you. Trouble. Call now.”
Terry. All Ridge’s alarm bells started clanging in his head. He leaned over to ask Brenda to take over, and she nodded and gave him a smile full of youthful exuberance. Ridge hurried out of the deposition room and called Terry from the hallway. No answer. He left a voicemail telling Terry he got the text message, and that Terry should call him back or Ridge would keep trying. He peered back through the glass doors to see Brenda was beaming as she put documents in front of the witness. He knew then that she’d finish the depo as well or better than he could. It was best to leave her to it, so he went outside to try Terry again.
It’d taken Terry less than five minutes to sprint back to Dan’s SUV. Glad he’d taken the driver’s seat that morning, Terry reached into his pocket for the key to the Nissan Pathfinder. Once inside, he’d grabbed his cellphone and started to call 911. But then he hesitated, thinking, What do we really have? We trespassed onto a judge’s property. Broke in at night, with guns, no less. His security nabbed us. Then we shackled the security guard to a wall. Everything else was hearsay or deniable. 911 wouldn’t work. Instead, Terry had texted Ridge a brief message.
Now, waiting for reply, he used his left hand to feel under the driver’s seat. There it was. Taped to the bottom. Dan’s back-up piece. A holstered Glock 9 and extra magazines. Terry strapped on the brown shoulder harness, checked to be sure the Glock was loaded, and stuffed the magazines into his cargo-pants pockets. He then started the Pathfinder and pulled away, cranking in a U-turn, to return to 12 Oaken Drive. About a block later, a big black Lincoln Navigator shot by, going in the opposite direction. Didn’t look like there was anyone in the passenger seat, and after it passed, Terry slowed. Approaching the house carefully, he saw the gate closing, just as a vintage pick-up truck turned out of the driveway and accelerated down the street. Terry followed at a discreet distance. The truck turned off the 101 onto 154 heading up toward San Marcos Pass. Staying two or three cars behind, Terry followed it over the pass and down into Santa Ynez Valley. I doubt he’s going wine-tasting, thought Terry, as they approached a location used in the movie Sideways.
Terry trailed the truck past the movie location and onto the turnoff at Los Olivos for Figueroa Mountain. He lagged back as the truck slowed somewhat to make the turn. The road up the mountain was steep and winding. Terry was able to stay out of sight behind the many curves. Near the top of Figueroa the pickup turned onto a dirt road that led west toward Zaca Peak. It raised a whirlwind of dust. Again, Terry stayed back, keeping the truck’s dust cloud in sight without raising his own. They went about four miles toward Zaca Peak when the dust cloud settled. Terry moved in closer. The truck had left the road to turn onto a grassy track that led north. Terry had camped in the area several times, so he had a cursory knowledge of the countryside and knew there was nothing out there.
“Where the hell are you going?” he said aloud. He had no clue.
CHAPTER 63
Driving his beloved vintage truck, Hess followed the grassy track for several miles which led into a deep canyon. From there, he climbed a side ravine onto the rocky plateau known as Hurricane Deck. It was desolate. Which was why he put the Camp, his destination, in the midst of the San Rafael Wilderness. No roads. Only this jeep track, created back in the 1950s by uranium prospectors.
The Forest Service, undermanned and underfunded, never patrolled the country beyond Figueroa. And no one ventured into the wilderness north of Hurricane Deck. Knowing that, Hess had found the ideal location for the training camp. A deep canyon—with all-year water supply—at the base of the Sierra Madre Mountains.
Now, following the jeep trail, Hess was feeling good—really good. Only two days to the Sunday Summit. And tonight, His Eminence would visit the completed Camp for the first time. But what to do with the two shitheads in the truck bed? Two would be put on display. Tortured in front of the other Watchmen. No one betrays the Society. But what about the other guy? What was the best way to deal with him? So many choices. And had he put a bullet in the asshole who escaped? Too bad there was no time to hunt the bastard down.
He was sure he hadn’t been followed but paused a couple of times anyway to look back. No one. Nothing. So he continued his slow progress over rocks and ruts, knowing his huge tires let him move much faster than the Lincoln Navigator that would bring His Eminence out later that evening.
CHAPTER 64
Well behind the vintage truck, Terry paused to text Ridge: In deep shit. Surveying the situation. Hold tight. A message came back almost immediately. Roger that.
He peered through the windshield, studying the terrain, trying to figure out where to leave the Pathfinder. He felt he’d have to go ahead on foot. The jeep track cut across the desolate plateau for about five miles. Then down to a river bottom. Beyond the river, the ground rose, and the track led up into mountains higher than those in the coastal range. Leaving the Pathfinder in the river bottom, concealed among trees, would be best, but it would mean a helluva hike. On foot, though, he’d have a better chance of staying out of sight.
Decision made, he left the Pathfinder downstream in a thicket of willows, waded across the stream and followed the track about two miles up a steep slope. Then he saw it. The entrance to a deep canyon, inside the spurs of the mountain range. Terry advanced slowly.
After miles of traveling cross country seeing no one, what Terry found in the canyon blew him away. He scrambled further up the slope and ducked behind a huge boulder. Peering out, he witnessed a whole shitload of activity below. It looked like a military camp. Huge. He made out target ranges, obstacle courses, and tents all around a big pond formed by a dammed-up stream. One tent was considerably larger than the others. Probably the Operations Center. The vintage pickup was parked in front of it. As Terry watched, the big man pushed Dan from the pickup bed. Then he pulled out Two, dropping his limp body next to Dan. Terry took out his cellphone to call Ridge, but—no signal. Text failed too. Damn it. Terry glanced up and saw dark clouds moving in over the mountains. Bad weather, bad service, so much for it never rains in Southern California.
He went back to observing the camp. Terry counted eight people moving around—all dressed in green camouflaged fatigues. Two of them carried what looked like ammunition from an underground bunker to east of the Big Tent. Staring harder to the south of the Tent, Terry saw a helicopter pad—covered by green netting that blended with the trees. These guys don’t fool around. Genius, really, hiding a camp this big in these mountains. Then Terry tried his cellphone again. Still no signal. No texts. Nothing. He hustled further up the mountainside, hid behind a tree and held his phone high, reaching for the stars. Finally, a signal. Intermittent…at best. But going with what he had, Terry touched “Favorite Numbers” and hit one. Ridge’s cell began to ring.
Ridge sat at his Starbucks table in downtown L.A., still nursing his cappuccino and trying to decide whether or not to order another one or go back to the deposition. He was worried about Terry and Dan, but there wasn’t much he could do until—his cellphone rang. Terry’s ringtone.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“We’re in deep shit out here.”
“Where’s ‘here’?”
“Here is someplace in the mountains northeast of wine country—way behind Santa Barbara. I’m about three-quarters of a mile up a mountainside. Just emailed you longitude and latitude using Google. I’m looking down on some type of hidden military camp. Dan’s down there. In trouble. A guy named Hess has him. I think he’s the Hulk. And he’s the one killing the judges.”
Ridge stared at his phone. “Military camp? Holy shit.”
Terry quickly brought Ridge up to date on everything that had happened. “I escaped but the big guy kept shooting,” said Terry. “A lot of ducking, zig-zagging, and beaucoup luck got me the hell out of there. And, I think, the rain threw off his aim. But bottom line is Dan’s down there with Hess and the guy’s out for blood.”
Ridge stood, knocked over his cappuccino. “Holy shit. Sounds like Gimuldin and the three floating judges are running some kinda weird society to control other judges. And I bet they’re the ones who want us to drop Uncle Cho’s Silent Conflict case. But what proof do we have?”
“None—other than what Two said. That’s the kid’s name. And he’ll change his tune once Hess gets through with him.”
“Let’s call 911 anyway.”
“Can’t. No real evidence and remember, we were the ones who broke into the judge’s house. Anyway, Dan made me promise that if anything went wrong, we’d handle it ourselves. He doesn’t want to lose his job at LAPD. And you know his boss, Lieutenant Krug. He’d can him in a heartbeat just because.”
