Chuck Logan - The Price of Blood

“So who’s this alleged gold belong to?” asked Mike.

Broker shrugged. “Right now I’m thinking that it got lost in a gray area between two chapters in the history book.”

Broker stood up and placed his hands on his hips and watched the firelight bend over the waves that lapped on the rocks. “Maybe it belongs to the people who stole it. Maybe I’m one of them,” he said.

Mike joined him on the water’s edge. “This LaPorte character, what’s he like?”

“Tough, smart, rich, connected.”

“And you’re going after him?”

“Depends. If she’s right. If the gold is real-I’m going after something .”

“With just that girl?”

Broker laughed. “The other survivor of the raid sent Nina to find me. He’s been sitting on something for twenty years in federal prison. Now he’s out, he’s dying of cancer, and he’s disappeared.”

“Sounds pretty thin, Phil.”

“Right now ten tons of gold sounds pretty heavy to me.”

“You’re going back to Vietnam?”

“I’m not going back anywhere. I might be going to someplace. Except this time, I’m going on my own. And I plan to pay myself damn well for my trouble. If all that gold’s really there-”

“Can you do that?”

“Watch me,” said Broker. He swung his eyes down the dark beach. “We’re going to hold on to these rocks.”

Mike left Tank on Broker’s porch. Then he drove into town with Irene. Nina came from the shadows with the shotgun balanced on her shoulder. “You have a nice talk?”

“Real good one.”

“I feel left out.”

“No. I’m thinking you’re definitely in.”

He patted Tank on the head and then told Nina to give it a rest and get some sleep. He’d be sitting up just a few feet away in the bedroom. She said he looked tired. He said that if he nodded off and anything happened the dog would rouse half the goddamn county. He reminded her to be careful with the shotgun, anything she heard moving out in the dark could be cops watching the place. Or the dog.

As he brushed his teeth, a Scotch-inspired thought caricatured his lean face in the mirror. He recalled a question on the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory test, one that had recurred in his imagination while working undercover, a personal joke that John Eisenhower would not approve of: I am a special agent of God . Answer yes or no.

The angry scream was Nina. The grunt of pain belonged to someone else. Dammit! Broker shot upright on the bed and grabbed for the Colt. Must have fallen asleep and …

Broker grimaced as he rolled off the bed, at half-speed, because of the thumb, and charged the doorway to the living room. Bodies crashed against furniture, the screen door buckled.

Three figures thrashed on the back porch, breaking his terra cotta pots. A shotgun was somewhere in the middle. In the porch light, a patch of Nina’s ribcage showed where her T-shirt was ripped. This tall dude with long, blond hair askew was trying to bear-hug her. Burly Lyle Torgeson’s light blue uniform was in there too, trying to lever between them.

The intruder was making the fatal mistake that Earl had made, trying to contain a hysterical woman. Nina darted inside his long reach and butt-stroked viciously with the shotgun stock.

“She’s with me,” Broker yelled, gingerly looking for a way into the tussle.

“Then tell her to stop hitting me ,” yelled Lyle.

Broker found an opening and clubbed the blond dude in the head with the pistol butt. He slung his good arm around Nina’s waist and lifted her free, grunting with the effort because she was compact as a puma and hissing and spitting and she still had a hold on the shotgun.

Lyle had his service pistol out now and jammed the muzzle two inches into the blond guy’s cheek. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

“Hey, man, mind the threads, I ain’t resisting,” said the guy in a ropey drawl. An echo of Earl lay thick on the chilly predawn and Broker, breathing hard, hurting, shaking, became incensed. He hadn’t been in two tussles in two days in a row since he’d been a rookie working patrol.

Urgent footfalls sounded in the brush on the path from the lake. Broker snatched the shotgun from Nina, stuck the Colt in his waistband, and swung the shotgun toward the sound. “It’s Mark Halme, from Grand Marais,” shouted Lyle. Broker lowered the long gun. “We got this under control,” said Lyle to the swift-moving shadow. “Keep an eye on the road.” The other cop jogged back on toward the road.

Broker saw the map, mashed flat by a dirty shoeprint, on the redwood planks among the dry potting soil, dead roots, and broken crockery. He snatched it up and set it aside. Then he turned to this new redneck.

Lyle had him face down and was trying to cuff him, but the guy was making it hard so Broker stepped in and gave him a kick. He quieted and Lyle, who had holstered his piece, grabbed a handful of the guy’s hair and slammed his head down onto the redwood.

“I got no problem cuffing you unconscious,” said Lyle.

“Awright, man, cut the shit, I’m lettin’ you do this, you understand,” said the guy. A streak of blood on his chin made an oily slick in the yard light. Lyle snapped the shackle.

“Okay, you have the right-”

“Wallet,” said the guy.

“Shut your hole,” said Lyle.

“Badge in my wallet,” said the guy.

Broker glanced over at Nina who sat in a crouch, sweating and gasping for breath, eyes bright. “The green Saturn?”

“Now you believe me? He was on the plane. His name is Fret.” She nodded.

“He left the Saturn up on the road,” said Lyle. He had the wallet out and squinted at it in the yard light. He handed it to Broker. The blond guy rolled over and came to a sitting position, his back against a bench. He was wearing a charcoal jacket, matching trousers, a black stretchy muscle shirt, and soft, worn black crosstrainers.

The laminated picture ID matched the guy, a pretty boy, cruel face ruined by a bottom-heavy long jaw. Carefully combed blond hair. A silver badge was pinned next to the ID. Det. Sgt. Bevode M. Fret, Orleans Parish, New Orleans Police Department.

“He’s no cop. He works for Cyrus LaPorte,” said Nina.

“Shut up,” said Broker. He turned to Fret. “What’re you doing breaking into my house?”

“Recovering stolen property,” said Fret confidently.

Broker motioned to Lyle who told Fret to stay put. Then they walked down the steps into the backyard. Lyle said, “Had the car on my sheet, Tom said to keep an eye out, watched him pull out from the motel parking lot at 3 A.M. We had Mark already up here, backed off the road, so I radioed him to look sharp. Asshole there pulled over about a hundred yards from your turnoff. Came in through the woods…”

Broker’s skin prickled suddenly, his eyes swung from side to side, reaching out into the dark. Then he whistled. The high-pitched whistle echoed through the silent pines. Then he called, “Tank.”

Lyle bit his lip and shook his head. “Lured him up onto the road. We found a canine handler’s whistle up there. He hit your dog with a Tazer.” Lyle paused and toed the dirt. “Then musta snapped his neck.”

“Shit.”

“He’s tricky, we lost him in the trees. Mark swung down to the shore in case he was coming up from the beach. Then I saw him creeping toward your place. He went in and I came running and he comes flying out the screen door with the banshee. She a new love interest?”

“That would be too simple.” Broker shivered, bare-chested in jeans and tennis shoes.

“This some kind of snaky UC shit that followed you up from the Cities?”

Broker shook his head. “This is personal. Can you take him down and put him on ice, no rights, no phone call, nothing. I’ll get dressed and meet you at the station. We’ll have a talk with him.”