“Jeb was supposed to pick this Bob feller up, take him somewhere real quiet. Instead, he ain’t been seen in over a day. If he’ll take out a cop, he ain’t worried about paying us a visit. So keep close dang watch, okay, brother?”
“You didn’t answer me none.”
“I got to go into town, figure out why Jonah didn’t drop off Merry’s winnings. But I’ll be back before four a.m.,” Tommy said simply, heading back towards the house. “I’ll spot you at four, Javier will spot for Terry, and you fellers can get some shuteye.”
“Fine.” Vern sighed, though he sure didn’t sound fine.
Bob crouched low, his gear slung over his back, his FN 5.7 in his right hand. The narrow rows of four-foot potted aloe vera plants in the field next to the Kopecs’ ranch provided decent coverage.
He figured they probably leased the land to a commercial grower. The Kopecs were no one’s idea of farmers.
That didn’t mean he was going to underestimate them. He’d stopped to pick up his gear from the rooming house, much to Sharmila’s discontent. She’d argued the risk was too great, then had to admit that Bob wasn’t putting anyone else in the line of fire.
Then he’d borrowed her car—which had worried her almost as much—on the promise he wouldn’t put it in harm’s way either.
Unproductive to worry, he thought, as he crept across the field. The swale of the ground shifted slightly, a rocky ridge in the middle of the field creating a small hummock. Good spot to take a look.
He drew the spyglass from his pack and zoomed in on the buildings, a hundred yards away. He swept his view slowly from left to right, raising and lowering the spyglass slightly each time to account for depth perception, getting a complete picture.
Someone was seated near a ridged pit of some kind—a well?—in a wooden deck chair. He had something across his lap, something long and thin. A rifle? Could be.
Guarding the back of the property because of the road? Looks it.
On a ranch surrounded by empty acres?
It was wholly insufficient to cover one angle of approach to a circular perimeter. But if they’re that dumb… He swung the spyglass to the other side of the property. Initially, he saw nothing. A light was on in the house still, despite it being nearly one in the morning.
He swept the spy glass further right, following where he figured the main driveway lay. After about a hundred yards, a set of legs stepped past the edge of a nearer hill and into view, roughly where the road would be.
Yep, another guard. He had to be nearly a mile away, and even with the glass maxed out and a light standard at the entrance, he was difficult to see. The man had a long gun of some sort slung across his arms, like a bored grunt guard toting an M4.
He swung the glass back to the first man, in the nearer seat by the barn. The Kopecs were only a symptom of bigger problems: their employers, principally Merry Michelsen. But dealing with them would send an important message, maybe prevent more attempts at collateral damage.
I promised I wouldn’t kill them. I didn’t say I wouldn’t hurt them.
Two men walked out of the house, then over to a pickup truck to its right side. They climbed in and started the motor, the engine throaty and rumbling. A moment later, it backed out of the spot, then headed towards the main driveway, on the ranch’s southern perimeter. It disappeared over and down a hill, then appeared a few moments later near the gate.
Bob stashed the spyglass in his pack and withdrew a capped syringe, storing it in his jacket pocket for quick access. He’d had it since an encounter with a torturer in Memphis, a shellfish toxin that in low enough dosage, he theorized, would paralyze a target without killing him. Just in case.
He resumed his trek. He crossed the ridge and stayed low, sneaking towards the property patiently. There were still hours until daylight, and no need to rush.
35
Vern Kopec was not an attentive guard. The two men hadn’t been gone for more than five minutes before Vern had his phone out, surfing videos online.
It made Bob’s life easier. The sound of laughter from the clip was loud enough that he figured Vern wasn’t hearing much else. Not the stiff wind, nor the brush rustling, nor the odd car from the road a hundred and fifty yards away, nor the hogs wallowing in mud.
Vern just stared at the bright screen, his face illuminated, mouth agape.
Bob snuck out of cover behind the plants and into the mud and trampled grass near the home and barn. From twenty yards ahead, he heard a crackling sound. “Terry to Vern. You there, Vern?”
Vern reached down beside the chair and picked up an old-fashioned walkie talkie. “Yeah? What you want?”
“Just checking in. I ain’t heard from no one in darn near two hours. Tommy just—”
“Tommy ain’t here. Went into town.”
“Yeah, I know. I saw his truck. When they going to spot us off?”
“Sometime by four.”
“Four!?” the tinny speaker squawked back. “Man, I was up at nine this morning, Vern… I got kids.”
“Bitch, you think I care about your gol’ darn sleeping arrangements? He figures this Bob feller’s going to come looking for us, after the fuss at Feeney’s. And my brother is smart, Terry. So you best be ready.”
“Aw, Vern, come on, son…”
“I ain’t your friend, Terry Perrine. You let Merry toss you in the dog pit, get all bit up! I been thinking of shooting me a sad little dog in its ass ‘cos of how weak it is, cowering over by the barn, clinging to that one spot of light like its momma’s teat. But maybe I should pay you a visit in the meantime.”
“Geez! I was just joking, Vern, dang!”
“Yeah? Well, don’t be such a joke, then. Mind your business and don’t bother me.” He released the walkie talkie’s side button and dropped it on the grass next to his chair.
Bob resumed his approach. Vern turned his attention back to his videos.
Bob was ten feet from the back of the man’s chair when his sole came down on a twig, the ‘snap’ sound seemingly amplified by the stillness of the late night.
Vern sat up straight, his head pivoting slightly each way as he craned his ears to find the source.
