Don Winslow - Way Down on the High Lonely

“People think I’m carrying rubbers,” the driver said as he hopped down from the cab, “but actually I went to USC.”

That’s kind of funny, Cal thought. But neither Carter nor Hansen laughed, so he put on a scowl and gave the driver the cold eye.

The driver rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “It’s a little colder here than it was in LA,” he complained. He looked at the compound and asked, “You guys expecting company?”

“Would you be Mr. Mackinnon?” Carter asked him.

“I wouldn’t be if I had a choice, but I don’t, so I am.”

“I’m Reverend Carter, this is Bob Hansen.”

“Nice to put a face to the voice.”

“I’m surprised you came alone,” Carter said.

“I can take care of myself,” Mackinnon answered.

Cal heard this as both a comment and a threat.

The Mackinnon guy looked around at all of the boys and smiled. He sure enough looked like he could take care of himself. He had a body like a bear, and anyone looking hard could see the form of a large pistol holstered at his belt.

Hansen asked, “What have you brought us?”

“I’ve brought you enough stuff to send a whole battalion of kikes and niggers back to their maker,” Mackinnon said. “But unfortunately, I can’t give it away.”

“The money is in the safe,” Hansen said.

Mackinnon smiled. “That’s good enough for me. After all, we’re all on the same team, right?”

Cal stepped forward. “I want to take a close look at this stuff before we pay,” he said, trying to stare Mackinnon down.

Mackinnon didn’t stare down easily. “And who are you?” he asked.

Hansen stepped in. “This is Cal Strekker. He has ranger training. He’s our tactical instructor.”

“Well, Cal,” Mackinnon said, “I’m looking out here at all this flat ground and those hills back there and I’m thinking about what you’re going to need to defend your perimeter. I brought some mines that can be tripped off by contact or blown by switches from your watch-towers. I brought some rocket launchers same as the Afghanis have been using to shoot down Soviet helicopters. You’re familiar with them, I’m sure. Carry them right on your shoulder, pull the trigger, and whoosh. I brought five crates of M-16s, and they have the bugs worked out of them by now-they don’t jam the way they used to during the southeast Asian war games. I even brought a. 50 caliber air-cooled machine gun you can set right in that bunker over there and chop up any assault coming across that flat. And I even brought you some mortars, because that’s going to be a problem for you if your enemy has any mortars of his own sitting back in those hills. He could turn this into another Dien Bien Phu unless you have some arty of your own to dig him out.”

Cal was impressed but didn’t want to show it. He said, “Well, we plan on doing more than just defending ourselves.”

“Of course you do,” Mackinnon replied, “so I also have two very nice sniper rifles-Swiss-some infrared scopes, and three superb. 22 automatic pistols.”

“We ain’t plinkin’ cans here, mister,” Cal said.

“Of course, it takes a real professional to use one, but a well-placed. 22 in the brain will get the job done quickly, neatly, and quietly.”

“Silencers?” Cal asked.

Mackinnon spread his arms wide and said, “But of course.”

Cal grumped a little more then said, “Sounds okay, Mr. Hansen, but I think we better test a few of these things before we turn any money over.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Mackinnon answered. “I’ll need to show you how some of this stuff works, anyway.”

He stepped around to the back of the truck and started to lift the door. Cal followed him and looked inside at the crates. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and held it out to Mackinnon.

“No thanks,” Mackinnon said. “I’m trying to quit.” He hopped into the truck and said, “Cal, you want to send some of your men over here to unload this stuff?”

Cal waved the gang over and set them to work. He asked Hansen, “What about the prisoners?”

Carter stepped in. “I’ll deal with the prisoners.”

“Yes, sir.” That was fine with Cal. He was far more interested in the weapons Mackinnon had brought, and there was plenty of time to have some fun with that one-armed wise guy and that smart-ass Carey. With any luck they might break Harley’s three-week record. So let them wait.

“So far we’re winning,” Graham repeated to Neal. “We kept them talking for a half hour and now we’ve caught a break with this arms shipment arriving. With any luck they’ll be busy playing with their new toys for a while, which means more time for Ed to wake up and come get us out of here.”

“I wish he’d hurry,” Neal answered. He didn’t think Graham could survive much longer, not with the cold, the pain, and the shock. “You were great, Dad.”

“Hell with these guys,” answered Graham. “We’re not dead yet.” But we’re going to be, son, he thought. And the only thing I can do for you now is to try to keep the terror out of your mind. Stop you from imagining what the pain is going to be like. “Have you started working on your story yet?” Graham asked.

“Not really.”

“Get on it,” Graham snapped. “Think up layers on top of layers.”

“You got it.” I know what you’re trying to do, Dad, but I’ll play along. It gives us something to do, and I think we’re in for a long wait.

Then Carter and Randy came back in.

“Where’s Dad?” Shelly asked her mother.

They were standing at the kitchen counter. Karen sat at the table, peeling potatoes.

“On the roof,” Peggy answered.

“Again?” Shelly laughed. “Who does he think he is, Santa Claus?”

“Honey, your father has always thought he was Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Peter Pan all rolled up into one. He’s still working on this big surprise of his.”

Karen asked, “When do we get to see it?”

“Tonight, he says.”

Shelly rolled her eyes dramatically and said, “It’s going to be a long afternoon.”

Up on the roof, Steve held the last of the wires down with one hand and pounded the U-nail down with the other. He wanted to finish up before the storm came in and made him stop.

He looked up to check out the clouds again. Yep, he thought, looks like we’re going to have a white Hanukkah.

Then he heard the far-off crackle of rifle fire coming from the Hansen place. Knock yourselves out, boys, he thought. Because I’m going to knock you out tonight.

Shoshoko heard the gunfire too. He looked up from the rabbit he was skinning and listened closely. The sound was coming from the valley, close to the base of the mountain. But what could they be shooting at, using so many bullets? Or was it just the white man’s silly habit of constantly testing his aim? A wasteful, childish game, Shoshoko thought.

Yet from his dream, he knew that the white men would be coming up the mountain and that the bullets would be for him. He went back to skinning the rabbit. They needed the meat, and it was not his fate to die in the daylight. The white men would not come until the night.

Cal could tell that the constant popping sound of the boys trying out the sample M-16s was annoying Mackinnon. The man didn’t like working with explosives anyway; his fingers looked numb with cold, and he was sweating profusely even though he was lying in the snow. But the arms dealer sure as hell knew what he was doing, Cal could tell that. He watched as Mackinnon finished arming the mine, then brushed some snow over the top of the metal disc that looked like a large dinner plate.

“Mark this down as ‘AV, RC 3,’” he told Cal, who stood above him making sketches in a notepad.