Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Revenge

“I hear you,” Nick managed to say as he threw the two anti-anxiety pills into his mouth and chewed. “I’m just not in the habit of lying. Not even to you, Barzani. I don’t know what will come of this meeting for certain, but the President would hope for a reprieve until his press conference.”

There was another long pause while Nick watched his left hand develop a tremor.

“That is only one day,” Barzani said. “We will wait. But if there is no announcement … well, let us say, Arizona could look very different the next morning.”

Nick had a question on his mind, but his anxiety-filled brain struggled to get it out. “And me?”

“Unfortunately, Agent Bracco, your fate is sealed. You will not be allowed to survive under any circumstance.”

Nick forced his hand into a fist, then unclenched it, trying desperately to control the adrenalin coursing through his bloodstream.

“You now, Barzani, I will find you.”

“I’m certain you will.”

“Then you know I’m close.”

“Oh yes.”

“Then why not come in and we’ll talk. Maybe we can find some common ground.”

A slow chuckle came from the receiver, bellowing into a full out laugh. “Tell me Agent Bracco, are you suggesting we become friendly?”

“No,” Nick said. “I’m suggesting you accomplish the goal you were sent here for and you have a better chance of succeeding with my help.”

“I see,” Barzani said. “And how is your wife?”

Nick slammed his fist onto his desk and immediately writhed from the piercing jolt of pain in his shoulder.

“Don’t you ever try to hurt her again, or I swear, I’ll go to Turkey myself and find every one of your family members and have them tortured. Do you understand me?”

The silence seemed to go on for a couple of minutes. Finally, Barzani left Nick with the most frightening words he’d ever heard.

“Tell me, Agent Bracco … how good is your Russian?”

Anton Kalinikov sat back in his seat on the Amtrak train and enjoyed the scenery passing by. Trees and open fields were interrupted by the occasional railroad crossing where several cars lined up to wait out the passing train. He’d always preferred public transportation to rental cars. Probably a European thing, he supposed. The train was headed to Pittsburgh where he would fly out to Edmonton, Canada. These were very soft target airports with little scrutiny from the authorities. Once in Canada he would be free to fly home and pack his gear. His dream house was waiting to be built in South Bimini in the Bahamas. It’s where Ernest Hemingway lived back in the 1930s. Kalinikov had bought property on the beach almost a decade ago in preparation for his retirement. The time had finally come for him to relax and relish the fruits of his labor. He was imagining the sand between his toes when his phone chirped. He checked the number. Not surprisingly, it was blocked.

“Yes,” Kalinikov said.

“You have one more job before you leave,” said a man with a thick Turkish accent.

Kalinikov was almost expecting the call so he knew precisely how to answer. “No, thank you. I am done here.”

“But you have not heard the offer.”

Kalinikov had to sigh. This was always the tough part for him. He knew this day would come when money would be offered and he would have to refuse. He’d come from a very poor upbringing, so turning down money had always been a weakness.

“I am sorry,” Kalinikov said. “You will just have to find another person for the job.”

“I have two million reasons why you’re just the right person.”

Kalinikov actually glanced around the train to see if anyone could possibly have heard what he’d just heard. “Two million?”

Kalinikov’s beach house had just gotten bigger. Even his fantasies were becoming obsolete.

“Yes,” the voice said. “Two million.”

Kalinikov took a breath. He tried to find a loophole, anything to convince himself it wasn’t worth it. “American dollars?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Kalinikov finally leaned back and closed his eyes. Although he’d already known the answer, he asked, “Where am I going?”

“Payson, Arizona.”

Nick slowed his car on the unpaved road as it led him to the back of a brick building where four Harley Davidson motorcycles and three worn pickup trucks sat in a dirt lot. He parked between a couple of the trucks, took his gun from his holster and placed it in the glove box.

He went up a set of brick steps where a large plaque on the wall said, “Loyal Order of the Moose.”

Nick approached the wooden door and knocked. Cobwebs hung from the overhang above him. The sound system inside was loud enough for The Allman Brothers Band to bleed through the door. Duane Allman was ripping his slide guitar during one of their live performances. Nick couldn’t recall the song. In Memory of Elizabeth Reed?

A sliding peephole opened and a pair of eyes examined him. It was late afternoon, but there was enough light to make Nick completely visible.

“I was hoping to speak with Sarge, if that was convenient for him.”

The peephole scraped closed and Nick waited.

A minute later the door opened. He stepped inside and held up his right arm, while his slinged arm stayed by his side. A scraggly middle-aged man with a “Hog Heaven” t-shirt patted him down, then nodded him in.

The place looked like an old cowboy bar you’d see in the movies. Round wooden tables were spread unevenly across the uneven floor. A long bar took up the back wall with a ceiling-to-floor mirror behind it. A bartender wiped glasses with a brownish towel. There were a dozen men wearing jeans and a variety of tee and flannel shirts. The two men playing pool stopped to stare at Nick. As a matter of fact, every eye in the place was now on him. The Allman Brothers were still cooking on the jukebox, but nothing else in the room made a sound.

Nick found Sarge sitting at a round table playing poker with a few of the boys, his back against the wall. One by one the poker players dropped their hands on the table and slowly stood up, leaving the table for Nick.

Sarge had a big belly, a long beard and hair that hung well past his shoulders. He’d had a cigarette in his mouth and was shuffling the cards as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Nick wasn’t halfway to the table before the smell hit him and he realized the cigarette was marijuana.

“How’s it going, Sheriff?” Sarge said while flipping the cards between his stubby fingers with the skill only years of practice could provide.

“May I sit?” he asked.

Sarge put the deck of cards down, then took a huge drag on the joint and blew it out just above Nick’s head.

Nick worked hard to control himself. He took his seat across from the large man.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

Nick looked around at the roomful of eyes taking in the scene, then looked back across the table.

“Sarge,” he said in a low voice. “I realize this is a private club, but I came here and showed you the ultimate respect. I asked for permission for a sit down. I allowed a pat down. I even asked permission for a seat.” Nick nodded to the joint in Sarge’s hand. “I think the least you could do is allow me the dignity of not smoking that in front of me.”

Sarge gave him a steely glare. He took a long drag, then blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. With a yellow-toothed smile he snuffed out the joint into a half-full metal ashtray.

Sarge lowered his head, then said, “I’m listening.”

Nick’s heart paced a little quicker than he’d hoped. Composure was a key when dealing with the Harley Mafia. They were mostly ex-soldiers, patriots who’d found a home transporting marijuana across the Arizona border and running a gambling racket. A bunch of misfits who would normally have trouble working in an office, but found the freedom of self employment.