Pat Ruger Box Set 2, page 36
part #4 of Pat Ruger Series
They walked toward the woods and I followed with as much stealth as I could. In the distance I could hear a dog bark, and the three armed men stopped and looked. It sounded like Guy but it was difficult to tell. After a moment they continued the walk, evidently satisfied that it wasn’t anything to be concerned about. They disappeared into the forest but I was able to continue following them. The trees were helpful, actually, making it easier to hide as I went.
In about a mile of walking, the couple seemed to be getting tired and the biker pushed them on. In a few more hundred yards, a house became visible. It had been built close to and within the grove and probably couldn’t even have been seen well from the air. I got out my phone and checked for signal and found my guess was right — zero bars. If only I had my surveillance equipment, I started to say to myself, realizing that figuring out what was happening was going to take a risky move to the house. I was banking on the fact that they were so well hidden that no cams were set up outside or, at least, not being watched.
This looked very much like a normal farm house, no doubt purposely so, painted light green with a fairly-well-maintained green lawn in the front and side yards. In the rear was a metal carport but no vehicles were parked there, nor was there any driveway leading to it. At the front of the house there was a red door preceded by a small porch and three steps. On either side of the porch were windows, one on the left and two on the right with partially open horizontal blinds. One window had a stack of firewood beneath it and shrubs on either side, perhaps an opportunity for eavesdropping. I circled the house from beyond the perimeter of trees and looked for other options. Seeing none, I dashed out of the woods across the side yard and crouched next to the window.
I tried to hear inside but could not, so I tried the window to see if it would open easily. It would not. I retrieved my glass cutting tool that is always on my key chain. It was really too small for this job but I didn’t have many choices. Each half of the window was split into four panes, and I reached over to the lower pane closest to me and made an “X” with the cutter. I stopped and tried to stay hidden, waiting to see if anyone heard the cut. When I was satisfied, I reached back over with both hands, one to make a horizontal cut from two parts of the “X” and the other to try to grab the piece of glass before it fell in and made noise on the floor. I was unable to keep the glass from falling in but no one seemed to notice, probably because the cut piece was so small.
I now had space to grab each piece as it was cut and I laid them one at a time on the ground under the bush next to me. Soon the entire pane was removed and I could hear some of the conversation going on in an adjoining room. The woman was still sobbing and the men seemed annoyed. One of them said that they should just shoot her rather than to deal with the sniveling and crying and being a general pain in the ass. Another said no, that they didn’t come by the right people often enough to let this opportunity go. The first voice said they needed to get them to the lab downstairs and get them started as soon as possible.
The old man said they were hungry and it sounded like he was struck because there was a heavy thud I could feel on the wall. The woman cried, “Henry!” A fourth man said, “Billy, calm down. I’ll get them some food so they can start work fresh and fed.” There was silence and I figured I might have to do something before they were taken to the so-called lab in the basement. I looked in the missing pane for a clearer look and the woman saw me from the other room. I put up my finger over my lips to shush her and she looked away, taking a breath.
“I need to go to the bathroom and Henry needs to clean up.”
“It’s over there,” one of the men said. “Don’t worry, the windows are all painted shut, so you’re not getting away.”
“I just need the bathroom,” the woman insisted. They moved off to my right and I heard a door close, then a minute later, a tap on a window nearby.
I moved to that window and saw that it was only two panes, one over the other, and they were looking at me. I motioned for them to turn the water on and I made a cut along the entire bottom of the lower pane, then crouched back down to the bushes below. I popped up again and made another cut, and another, until the entire pane was gone.
“Can you make it through here?” I asked quietly. After they nodded, I told them to hurry and I helped each one out, the woman first and then the man. I gave them my cell phone and said, “You need to go in that direction,” pointing west, away from the RV storage lot. “As soon as you get a cell signal, call this number,” showing them Gretchen’s FBI contact. Tell them Pat helped you get away and tell them to find you with their phone locater.” I thought about anything else they would need to know and decided I had better give them my cell PIN, 8868.
The man said, “What about you?”
“If everything goes okay, I’ll meet up with you soon. Now, go to the woods there and head west.”
He took the phone from me and they dashed to the trees as instructed, then turned right and ran.
“Hey, Billy, they’re getting away!” I heard from the front yard and I grabbed my gun and headed to the front corner of the house. When all three were visible I stepped out, gun drawn, and said, “Well, boys, you’re two old people down.” I pointed my gun more forcefully when they turned toward me with their own guns and I instructed them to drop the weapons. They did so. Then I had them walk towards me and kneel down as I backed up a few feet. I wanted to take as much time as possible to give the couple more distance before they were chased.
“I don’t know who you are,” one of the men said, “But you’re making a big mistake.”
The biker answered him. “This is the guy I was telling you about, the one that Mikey had a run-in with. His cop-friend stopped us from dealing with this guy.” Then to me, he asked, “Where’s your motorhome, old man?”
“In a safe place. What is all this?” I waved the gun around to indicate I meant the house and property.
“Like we would tell you,” the first guy replied. “How are you getting out of here alive, that’s the real question.”
“Not your concern,” I said. “Your concern now is that the FBI …”
“The FBI won’t ever find you,” another voice said behind me.
When I turned to see whose voice it was, a tall, stocky dude dressed like a farmer had a sawed off shotgun pointed at me. He was maybe forty, not a kid. I immediately put my finger in the trigger guard and held it up in the air with my right hand and raised my left as well.
The two men stood up and gathered their guns. As the biker approached me, I tensed my abdomen as best I could, but the punch in my abdomen was painful, doubling me over. Falling to my knees, I made sure they knew I was hurt, maybe more than I was.
“Get him inside and tie him up,” the farmer instructed as he picked up my Ruger. “I’ll send the boys to retrieve our … missing friends.” He smiled. “They won’t get far.”
Chapter 15
“We should off him,” the biker told the farmer. “He’s seen too much. He can’t testify from six feet under.”
I was standing against a wall in the dining room, hands tied behind me. The house inside was typical rustic farmhouse, with wood-planked walls and creaky wood floors, and old furniture throughout. Even the curtains, made up of dingy white lace, looked a hundred years old. They didn’t seem to care that I was in the room while discussing my future.
“You have a point,” the farmer replied. “Let me think …”
A kid of about 17 burst into the room from the back door. He was covered in blood.
I noticed that blood was spurting out from his wrist and the others didn’t seem to know what to do. “Pressure,” I yelled. “It needs pressure applied.” They looked at me like I was speaking Chinese. “Untie me for a minute. I can help.” The two men looked at the farmer for guidance. “Hurry,” added. “He’s not going to make it otherwise.”
The farmer nodded and the biker untied my rope. I picked the rope off the floor and rushed to the kid. I placed his right hand on the cut on his left wrist. “Hold that hard,” I said, then proceeded to apply a tourniquet above the cut. The bleeding seemed to slow but didn’t stop.
“What happened, Booger?” the farmer asked the kid.
Booger replied, “Not sure. We were chasing those old people and we lost them. When I came around a tree, the old man hit me with a branch or sump’n and I started bleeding. I ran back here as fast as I could.”
“You left James out there?”
“Yeah, he’s going to …” Booger fainted and I caught him before he hit the ground.
“If you want to save his life, you need to get him to a doctor.” I picked him up and asked, “Where’s the car?”
“We have a truck in the back,” the other man said. “Follow me.”
“Wait, Buck … they know Casey,” the farmer interrupted. “Let him drive ‘im.”
The biker nodded and pushed the back door open ahead of me. I followed him out and passed the empty carport and around a massive shrub to an old ‘67 or ‘68 Chevy pickup. It didn’t have a back seat and Casey opened the passenger door. As I set Booger into the truck, I looked around to see if the way was clear to make a dash for the trees. Buck and the farmer were both close by and the farmer still had his shotgun. I decided against it.
“Don’t take the tourniquet off,” I said. “The paramedics or nurses will do that when you get there. Hurry!”
Buck slammed the car door on Booger’s side while Casey hopped in behind the wheel and started it up. Pebbles shot out from the wheels as he punched it and abruptly sped down the driveway path. It was quiet as soon as he left through the tree line, evidently knowing a path through the woods that wasn’t apparent.
“If the hospital’s not too far away, he should be okay.” I turned and saw that the shotgun was still pointed at me. “You gonna use that thing?”
“I might.”
“Wait, Dad,” Buck said. It was the first indication that there was a family relationship. “He saved Booger’s life. That’s gotta mean something.”
“We can’t let …” He turned to me and asked, “What’s your name?”
“Pat,” I replied as Buck found and pulled out my wallet.
“Patrick NMN Ruger,” he read my license out loud. “What’s ‘NMN’?”
“No middle name,” I replied. “I hated it when I was a kid and had it removed legally.”
“What was it?”
“Buck,” I said and laughed loudly.
“Very funny,” Buck said. “Really, what was it?”
“What, are we getting to know each other now?” I stopped smiling. “If you’re going to kill me, I might as well take that to the grave.”
“Pat, then,” the farmer continued where he had left off. “We can’t very well let Pat go tell the authorities about us, can we?”
“No, but we can’t kill ’im either. Can’t we use him in the tunnel? We’re shorthanded.”
“What’s ‘the tunnel’?” I asked.
Farmer Dad expressed annoyance and said, “You’ll see. Do you take any medications, any prescription drugs?”
I wondered what that question was about and asked, “Why?”
“We’re gonna provide them to you.” He smiled and added, “At no cost to you.”
I thought for a moment and came up with something one of the cops at Denver P.D. had. I didn’t know for sure, but I thought it might come in handy sometime. “Valproic acid. It’s for epilepsy.”
“You have epilepsy?”
“Just a mild form. I don’t have seizures very often, but I need the drug to keep them from happening.”
He nudged the shotgun toward the house and said, “Move. Over there.”
I looked over and saw a pair of cellar doors I missed on my first trip around the house. Buck led the way and opened the doors up and outward, revealing a concrete stairway down to the cellar. Buck entered first and a slight push of the shotgun barrel on my back got me to follow.
I thought it would be darker than it was, but the lighting was fairly bright. The century-old basement looked its age, with support beams and posts that were rotting and worn. The cracked cement floor was clean, as was most of the basement. I followed Buck to the far end and around a corner where a wooden door was latched closed.
Buck unlatched it and pulled it open, then stepped aside and said, “After you.”
“Wait,” Farmer Dad said. He grabbed a 12-inch canvas cube and held it out. “I need everything out of your pockets. Everything.”
I emptied them, including my wallet, a small pen, some change, a pocket multi-tool, a comb and the folded up photo of Jordan Bankhead. The farmer picked out the wallet and rifled through it. “There’s no mention here of any epilepsy. Don’t you carry a medical card or something?”
“Normally I do, but, like I said, it’s a mild form of the affliction and I sometimes forget to return it after I get my meds refilled. It’s been months since I had an episode.”
He continued to look through the wallet and tossed it back in the cube, evidently satisfied. “Turn around, hands up,” he instructed and he patted me down pretty thoroughly. “That way,” he said when he was finished.
I hesitated but walked through the doorway into an actual tunnel, with rock and dirt walls that were about 10 feet tall and support beams installed every 12 to 15 feet. Lighting was hanging by its wiring the entire length as far as I could see. Around 50 feet in, I could hear music and the tunnel opened up to a larger room that reminded me of a World War II bunker. As I stepped in several dozen people that were standing at tables stopped what they were doing and turned to look at us. Along the right side of the tables was a line of rooms with tarps hanging in front of each. There were four armed men standing in the corners of the cellar.
“Back to work,” Farmer Dad said and everyone turned back to their work.
“What’s this?” I asked.
The dad answered, “This,” he waved his free hand around. “This is our production line.”
“Production? Of what?”
“A new drug. No one’s got it, just us.” He seemed pleased with himself.
“What’s the drug? A type of meth?”
“No, but never mind that.” He turned to the tables on the left and said, “Pauline, will you come over here?”
A woman of about 65 or so, dressed in old black jeans and a tattered gray short-sleeved blouse, jumped up quickly and came over.
“Pauline, this is Pat, your new line worker. Pat, say hello to your new boss.”
Pauline extended her hand and I reluctantly shook it. “Nice to meet you, Pat,” she said meekly. “Come over to my table and I’ll show you what to do.”
“What?” I was taken aback by all of it. “Line worker?”
“It’s either this or …” He cut an invisible line across his neck with his thumb. I got the meaning. “Supper’s in about an hour. Hope you like pork.”
With that, he and Buck left and I heard the door swing close down the hall, then the latch. The Abba song in the background ended and an Elvis song started. I could just barely hear it.
I walked with Pauline to her table. She stood at one side and left me room to stand next to her on the right. I took my place and asked, “How long have you been here?”
“Several months. I’m hoping to graduate to a shop outside. I guess they have one in Argentina.”
“Argentina? That’s what you are aspiring to?”
She nodded. “Here, there are three choices. You can work here and be productive, you can slack off or refuse to work — we never hear what happens to those people — or you can excel and be promoted to their state-of-the-art lab in Argentina. We know some go there because every once in a while one will return to teach us something or change a formula.”
“What are you mak …” I paused when I saw a familiar face two tables away. “Jordan?” I called out. “Jordan Bankhead?”
Jordan hesitated for a moment but answered, “Yeah, I’m Jordan. Who are you?”
“I’m Pat Ruger. I’m happy to see you alive. There’re people looking for you. Your friend, Chuck, he’s looking for you.”
“Quiet!” It came from one of the armed men.
“I knew he would,” Jordan said in a lowered voice. “How’s Chuck these days?”
“He looks well, worried, though. He’s …”
“You’ll have to talk later,” Pauline interrupted. “They’re a mean bunch if we aren’t working.”
“Sorry. What are we doing?”
“Right now, we’re packaging.”
I looked at the table and Pauline had a setup that was duplicated at each table, maybe 40 tables in all. Some of them had one worker, some had two. There were three large plastic containers, a stack of small plastic bags, a food sealer, an electronic scale, a desk lamp, a rubber stamp and pad, and a pad of paper and a pencil. The top sheet on Pauline’s pad had numerous counting marks in the usual groups of five — four marks and a fifth slashed across them. The table tops were discount store white folding tables with thin newsprint roll of paper covering them.
Pauline had me take five tiny manila envelopes out of one of the bins and insert them into a plastic bag. Then we sealed the bag, stamped it with a mark that looked like a monkey and set the bag in a large cardboard box under the table. She then had me add a mark to the count sheet.
“These envelopes seem empty.”
“They’re not,” she replied. “There is a small amount of powder in each. It takes only a minute amount in an application, so I’m told. ‘Stench,’ I heard them call it. I guess it’s a new type of street drug.”
“What are those rooms for?” I asked in a whisper.
“Bunks. We sleep there when we’re told. Most of these people are older couples, so they bunk together.”
