Frank Klus - Azaleas Don't Bloom Here

The front office was about to call the police, but Chad Armstrong was able to calm the manager down and gave him money to pay for any broken items. The poolside was cleaned up and management was satisfied. Ray and Cassandra escorted Eugene away from the scene of the fracas and demanded an explanation.

Eugene explained who Horace Hayfield was and how he recognized him from the TV commercial that almost caused him to wreck his room so many weeks ago. Cassandra just laughed and Ray made a face.

“Look, Gene,” Ray said, “I understand how you feel.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“Please, Gene, listen to Ray,” Cassandra said.

It took Eugene about fifteen minutes to calm down. “Just keep me away from that son of a bitch.”

“Sure. Count on it,” Ray said as Chad came over.

“Look,” Armstrong said, “I felt the same about those two doctors as well, but we can’t fuck this up. We have to get over the border and we can’t afford for anything to go wrong. Now get a grip, Gene. We’ll keep you two apart the best we can, but when we can’t, just let it go. Okay?”

Gene pouted, but agreed.

Later that day, Nate Phillips came to the motel. He escorted all of them to his office, where they could talk in private. Everyone sat in the large conference room.

“I’m going to fill you in on the plan I have for getting you across the border. We are about eight miles from it right now, and we’ll be walking in difficult conditions for up to two hours, but let me back up and start from the beginning. Let me go through it entirely before asking me any questions. It’s easier this way. When I’m finished, I’ll be happy to take your questions and go over anything you don’t understand.”

Everyone was fine with that, eager to hear the plan.

“About a week or so ago, I met a man named Horace Hayfield. He was trying to find a way across the border when he met a man named Milo Hoopenmiller, who showed him a way to reach it. He charged Hayfield a thousand dollars, then drove with him to the spot where he’d have to get out and walk through a forest until he reached an unmanned fence—a border fence. On the other side was the New World. He was only a foot away when he began to climb the fence. What he didn’t know was that Milo was only setting him up. He was working with authorities who arrested Horace. I got him out.

“Now, I want to introduce another man to you. He is U.S. Senator Everson Moore. Pamela knows him as the insider helping her escort her clients across the border. He disappeared, allegedly dead, but his death was faked. This is him,” pointing to the man at the other end of the table from Phillips. “His wife successfully made it to New America. He’s looking forward to joining her. All of you will shortly be going over that fence to freedom. Now I’ll take your questions.”

“I still don’t know the details of our escape,” Armstrong said.

“Let me just say that we can use Milo to provide assistance, as well as Horace Hayfield, who has already made the attempt. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Can we trust Milo? My plan is to offer him more than he was getting, but staying with him so he can’t tip anyone off.”

Armstrong interrupted. “Why do we even need him? Hayfield knows the way.”

“I can’t remember the way,” Hayfield said. “Milo had me making a lot of turns, and it was dark.”

“Besides, Milo may get wind of another attempt and tip off the authorities,” Phillips said. “We can’t take chances. We need him.”

Armstrong just shook his head and looked frustrated. He looked at his friends, Wrenn and Foote, who expressed similar unease about the plan. Armstrong spoke up. “I don’t like it. It’s been my experience that untrustworthy people stay that way.” He paused and then continued. “Nevertheless, I think it was Machiavelli who said keep your friends close and your enemies closer. We may have no choice but to use Milo, but I can tell you I’ll have my eye on him all the time. That means he escorts us, not to just the jumping off point, but through the trees and right up to that damn fence. I want to keep my eye on him the whole way, and ready to slit that bastard’s throat if the police show up.”

The rest of the group applauded, and Phillips knew this scenario had to be included in his plans.

Three nights later, they were set to go. Armstrong drove in the lead vehicle with Milo handcuffed to the passenger door. It was midnight. Milo gave directions. He took them through twelve turns. The rest of the crew were keeping track of distance, turns, and roadways they took, just in case they would ever need to know. A few had a suspicion that this would not be a good idea.

They reached their destination an hour later. They decided to park their cars and trucks on different streets so any nosey late night neighbor wouldn’t get suspicious. Then they all gathered at the edge of the woods and left on the next part of their odyssey.

No one was used to it. It taxed even the Blues. Pamela had an especially difficult time of it. She never envisioned getting to the border this way. Ray and Cassandra began cursing the woods. Foote and Wrenn told jokes to each other. Moore stoically tramped on and Hayfield mumbled to himself. Milo kept whining that he’d gone far enough, but he was handcuffed to Armstrong, and he led on.

“No breaks. We’re not taking any chances of a delay that might cost us our liberty. We walk until we reach that damn fence.” No one protested.

About 1:45 a.m. they reached the small clearing. They could see the fence. Then they saw two men, one with a gun. “Been waitin’ for yah,” the guy with the gun said. The ragtag group froze in disbelief.

“Milo,” the man with a Scottish accent said, motioning for him to come over. Armstrong let him go. Milo ran over to them. Armstrong didn’t feel surprised.

“Okay, laddies—oh, and a couple lassies—this way.”

Armstrong motioned for them to come.

“Just a wee walk and then you get to sit down”, the Scotsman said. “I know you must be tired from such a long walk.”

His playful banter didn’t faze Chad Armstrong any. Wrenn still had a grin on his face, while Foote kept looking at Armstrong. Ray understood.

“Come on, come on, folks,” the Scotsman said.

“Anybody up for some T-ball?” Chad said to the others. Moore and Hayfield thought he was crazy. The others knew it was a signal.

“No time for games,” the Scotsman said. “It’s late and we—”

Scotty couldn’t talk anymore. He was more concerned with the stiletto Foote held to his neck; not to mention the left arm wrapped around his head. The Blues flashed their own guns.

“Drop your gun,” Armstrong said to the man with the rifle.

The man hesitated. “No. You, you, drop y’ yer guns,” the rifleman said.

Armstrong walked right in front of him, ignoring the barrel that was pointed at him. “Drop the pop gun. You kill me, and before you can cock that gun you’ll be lying in a pool of blood… your own.”

“Do it, Henry,” Scotty implored.

He did. Foote then let him go. Armstrong took the gun from Henry. He then walked to the fence, pulling Henry along, and peered out. “What’s out there?”

“Nothing. Just wh… what you see.”

“For how long?”

Henry just shrugged. “For miles.”

“About twenty-five miles,” the Scotsman said.

“Tell him, Jack, about the hel… helicopter.”

“Henry,” Jack, the Scotsman, said in a condescending manner.