Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

The temperature inside the Oldsmobile was a lot cooler than anticipated. When he'd driven the car here, the sun had made the heat inside almost intolerable. That's the drawback when appropriating an older-model car: no climate control. Plus the driver's window had a fault and he'd been unable to open it with the rotating arm. Oh how he suffered for his art!

When he'd driven into the parking lot, he'd left the car beneath a stand of palm dates to conceal it from the view of traf?c on the interstate. His fortuitous choice had also brought him some welcome shade.

Settling in the driver's seat, he prepared for a long wait. To pass the time, he took one of the?lm-wrapped packages from his pocket and teased the contents within. Kind of gnarly now, but they'd polish up nice. He imagined that the?ngers were those of the rosy-cheeked receptionist. Yes, he could be in for a long wait, but he was happy to do so with his mind thus engaged.

Harvey had done a decent job of monitoring the movements of Sigmund Petoskey. True to Harvey's word, as soon as the third-generation immigrant?nished his daytime business, he headed out to the derelict building Rink had shown me earlier. He left in an entourage of three vehicles that snaked their way from the opulent business center to the run-down building, driving in a fashion that said he wasn't concerned about police patrols pulling him over. In our rental car, Rink and I followed at a discrete distance.

When Petoskey ignored a red light, we pulled up; it wasn't necessary to keep a close tail when we knew where he was headed.

The lights were re?ected in Rink's gaze.

"You up for this, Rink?" I asked.

He sniffed. "Ready."

"Things could get messy," I said. "But I can't think of a better way to shake Petoskey than raiding him in the place where he feels safest."

"You take guns into a man's house, things always get messy." He gave me a melancholy shake of his head.

"Been a while since you done any wet work?" I asked.

"Been a while, yeah. But it never leaves you, Hunter." Rink looked across at me, and for a moment didn't have to say more. Only those who have taken another man's life would know what we were imagining. He was right. It doesn't matter how hard you try to bury the memories, they never leave you.

The green light saved us further agony.

When we arrived at the old redbrick building, Petoskey's entourage had lined up in the lot to its right. As well as the original three, they'd been joined by a further two cars and a van.

A couple of bored guards stood to one side, nonchalant as they sucked at cigarettes. They weren't expecting trouble. They were there for appearance's sake.

These guards were of no immediate concern. We'd be going in via a different route and would not be seen by them. I was more apprehensive about the number of street people who wandered around the area. We were strangers, and they'd be suspicious of us. None of us knew- Harvey included-if the bums were belligerent to Petoskey or not. It'd ruin our chances of bearding King Siggy in his castle if any of them went running to him. I doubted anyone would do that out of loyalty, but the promise of a reward would be too much of a temptation for some.

Discretion is the better part of valor, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Rather than chance early discovery, we parked our vehicle the best part of half a mile from the building, donned shabby clothes we'd purchased from a thrift store, and then wandered in on foot. My SIG Sauer was tucked in the waistband of my trousers, my KA-BAR down my boot. Rink, however, had a shotgun to conceal. Without the luxury of a violin case, he carried his over-under 12-gauge in a large carry-on bag. To further disguise the gun, he raided a nearby Dumpster and pushed in a few old tin cans and a bundle of newspapers and magazines. On cursory inspection, his carry-on would pass for the sum of a bum's possessions.

The walk in took about ten minutes, but it was just what we needed to shake off the cobwebs of inactivity. Feeling keyed up, we took a position opposite Petoskey's building. Behind a chain-link fence was another small building. It had also suffered over the years. The roof was gone, no windows remained, and the interior was the domain of rats. Even the graf?ti were faded. No discerning street person would take up residence there.

We entered through a hole in the fence, negotiated a weed-choked courtyard, and entered the building through a doorless void. We had to then push our way through heaped rubbish to one of the abandoned of?ces from which we could watch and wait. The sunset was a raw wound on the horizon.

Without spoiling the decor, Rink emptied the junk from his bag. He checked the shotgun and seemed satis?ed. He fed shells into it while peering out the window. Following his gaze, I saw that lights had come on behind the plastic sheeting on the upper?oor. Though muted, shadows wove sinuous patterns on the sheeting as people moved through the rooms.

"I'd like to know what the hell's going on up there," I said.

"Don't hear nothing," Rink replied. "My guess is he's got a cook shop going."

It was a likelihood that Petoskey had some kind of lab going up there, producing crack cocaine or methamphetamine. On two counts, we were going to have to take care going in. If indeed it was a crack lab, inside there could be innocents who had been forced into this unwholesome line of work. Plus, the scum guarding the production line would be packing weapons. Scum with weapons plus innocent bystanders were never good mathematics.

"I don't know, Rink. Could be something else."

The location wasn't sitting right with me. Okay, we were in a run-down area of town, but normally crack labs weren't as public as this. People didn't turn up in limousines to conduct a quality control inspection, even if a few of the local cops had been paid to turn a blind eye.

Something I didn't doubt: whatever was going on, it was something illegal. We'd be in dangerous territory. "Looks like your standard one-two assault," I said to Rink.

He nodded slowly.

Where only two soldiers are involved in in?ltrating an enemy stronghold, we always used a strategy termed a one-two maneuver. Like the name, there's nothing fancy about it. Advancing single?le, the?rst-or point-man would engage and take out the enemy while the second would move on to the next position. Roles would then reverse, and so on, until the high ground was gained and no enemy was left behind to cause further trouble.

Of course, there are inherent problems with such tactics. It leaves way too much to chance and the ability of the individual soldier to neutralize the opposition. If things go wrong, the mission has to be aborted in rapid fashion. In the past, I've had worse experiences gaining exit than I have in the initial assault. Because of this, I prefer the less formal sobriquet of "smash and dash."

It remained our choice of approach on this occasion simply because it was all we had the numbers for. Maybe I should've allowed Harvey Lucas to join us. With three men, it lessens the chance that the enemy can out?ank you. But not by much.

"Where do you suggest we start?" Rink asked. His expression was?at, but this was a front. Lights burned behind his eyes, and I knew that he was anxious.

I pointed out the opposite end of the building from where the guards patrolled. "See the?re escape? I'm guessing that there are doors at each?oor. We'll go in through one of them, huh?"

Rink inclined his chin in agreement.

On its lowest?oor the doors were most likely locked as tight as a miser's billfold. But the myriad broken windows would give us easy access.

It was a waiting game. The sun went down, and shadows moved in like furtive burglars in the night. The lights behind the plastic grew brighter. Like zombies from some B movie, the street people drifted from their daytime hideaways, moving off in search of what they needed to feed their vices. More vehicles arrived. From our position, we couldn't make out how many people arrived, but from the excited yapping, someone had brought a couple of dogs with them.