Читать книгу Head Of The Snake - G. Rehder - Страница 8

Chapter 4

We landed in Port Angeles an hour behind our ETA and taxied to a small hangar on the south end of Fairchild Airport. It was at the very end of Fairchild Road, away from the main terminal and any security. Since my bags contained two weapons, my .50-caliber Desert eagle and a collapsible AR15, along with over a hundred rounds for each. The chance for an inspection of the plane or my bags were slim to none at this private hangar. Bo had arranged to leave the Cessna in covered portage for several nights until his return flight on October 6. He planned on spending a couple of days with his old friend just catching up.

Eddie Mize was waiting in his truck next to the hangar as we taxied in. After we stopped and shut down the engines, Bo talked to a hangar worker. The worker would tow the plane to its resting spot. We then pulled out our bags and walked across the tarmac to Eddie’s truck.

When we were walking to his vehicle, Eddie slowly got out. I could see that age had not been good to him. He used a cane to balance as he stood there, waiting for us to reach him. Bo got to him first and was restrained in his hug on the man. I just extended my hand, introduced myself as Alan Ames, and shook with a gentle grip.

“Eddie Mize,” he said back to me with a smile. “Good to finally meet ya.”

Eddie was a small man unlike Bo. He was clean-shaven and bald. He was Bo’s age but appeared much older. The past two years had been rough. His wife of forty-three years had passed away recently, and Eddie had watched her suffer. The Toyota Eddie was going to sell me was her car, low miles, he told me when we made the deal over the phone.

“Toss your bags in the back. We can squeeze in the cab.” He looked at Bo. “You better ride shotgun, my friend, roll down the window so some of you can hang out. Give us all more room.”

I saw Bo smile, then he said, “This is the crap I had to put up with for three tours.”

“I can still dish it out,” Eddie shot back.

Eddie’s home was located off Hurricane Ridge Road. Out of town and in the hills above Port Angeles. He was on a knoll that had a 360-degree view, the Salish Sea to the north with lower mountains, then peaks to the west. He had lived up there for over thirty-five years. When I got out of his truck, looked around, and took a deep breath of the fresh air, I understood why.

I would spend the night with the two men then start my journey to Questa early the next morning.

The Toyota Eddie was selling me was like new. It had been kept in a garage and out of the elements, twenty-three thousand miles, barely broken in. I had already placed the agreed-upon cash payment in an envelope. I was carrying a large amount of money with me and didn’t want to flash it around. Even though I trusted Eddie, I didn’t know if anyone else would be at his house.

That night, we had a fine pasta dinner. Eddie and his wife used to own and run several restaurants in the Port area. He was a well-known chef, and his businesses were quite successful. After two helpings, I excused myself and retired for the night. When I was alone in my room, I tried a call to Mike Groves. It was 2100 hours his time. The phone rang many times, but he never picked up. I left a message. I would try again in the morning. I wanted to let him know when I expected to arrive in New Mexico.

The next morning, I hugged Bo and thanked Eddie for his hospitality. He wanted to make me breakfast, but I was anxious to move on. I wanted to make Rock Springs, Wyoming, by nightfall. I took a strong cup of coffee in a go mug from Eddie’s Keurig, said my goodbyes, and headed down Hurricane Ridge in the Four Runner to 101.

My planned route took me east to Spokane then to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. I made good time. The weather was on my side. I continued onto Interstate 90 into in Montana. I was in some of the most beautiful country I had ever seen. In Missoula, I connected with Highway 15 south to Idaho Falls.

I was in Wyoming about 1700 hours, made highway changes, and was in Rock Springs about 2120. It was dark and cold. I was tired, more than tired. A thick steak and a warm bed were all that was on my mind. I found a Motel 8 on Commercial Way. It had a vacancy sign lit up in the office window, an inviting sight. I pulled the Toyota into the lot and headed to the office.

A young lady behind the counter must have been bored working the night shift. The blond was preoccupied with her phone. I had to clear my throat to get her attention.

She looked up, and without a greeting, just asked, “Checking in?”

I used restraint and didn’t get snide. “Yeah, just one king if you have one.”

“Let me check,” she said and went to her computer. “Yes, a room on the second floor, okay?”

“That would be great.”

I gave her all my information and paid cash. She told me she needed to run a credit card in case there were additional charges.

I asked, “Like what?”

“Phone use, damage to the room, stolen towels,” she responded, trying to sound serious.

I looked at her then said, “You callin’ me a thief?”

She stepped back and stammered, “No, sir.”

I pulled out my wallet, pulled another twenty out, and slapped it on the counter. “This should cover anything I might steal. We good.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, a startled look on her face.

“So, young lady, where can I get a good steak?”

She hesitated a moment, like she was thinking about a real difficult question. “Saddle Back Saloon, just down the street.”

I turned and walked to my vehicle, looking up to the second-floor landing for my room, number 211. As I looked up, I noticed the gray storm clouds and the towns lights reflecting up on the weather front that had followed me all the way from Montana. I knew it would bust loose anytime.

I had a secret compartment under a hatch in the back of the Toyota. I had placed my bag with my weapons and SAT phone there for safekeeping. I grabbed my clothes bag, pulled my Desert Eagle out of the hidden bag and tucked it in the back of my jeans hidden by my coat, went up to my room, and set my bag down.

The room was sparse but looked clean. I checked my appearance in the bathroom mirror, removed my ball cap and rinsed my face, water clinging to my untrimmed beard. My stomach was growling. Time for that steak.

I found the Saddle Back Saloon just as the rain started bursting from the sky. I pulled up my collar, cinched my ball cap down on my head, and went for the door. I got on the covered porch and looked into the front window, only a few patrons sitting at tables and three guys playing pool. I was hoping the young lady didn’t steer me wrong since I gave her a bad time.

I walked in, and the three guys at the pool table stared at me as I waited for the waitress to seat me. She was a short redhead that looked like she had squeezed into her uniform.

“You by yourself tonight, mister?” she asked.

I looked behind me, then said, “As far as I know.”

“I got a table by the fireplace.”

“Sounds good to me,” I answered.

I sat down, and she handed me a menu.

“Anything to drink tonight? We got some good microbrews on tap.”

“Yeah, I’ll have whatever you recommend.”

She turned and left.

After watching me get seated, the three guys playing pool went back to their game, laughing and talking loudly. I guessed I wasn’t going to have a peaceful meal. Short red brought my draft and set it on the table. The wet glass slid to my right. The table slopped that way.

“So what brings you out on this stormy night?” she asked.

“Just traveling through,” I said.

“You heading to Cheyenne?” she asked again.

I was tired and hungry and getting annoyed at her questions.

“Just looking for something to eat right now,” I replied.

“Okay then. What can I get started for you?” she asked curtly.

“How’s your rib eye?”

“Best if you have it medium rare.”

“Okay, I’ll have one with a baked potato.”

“Sorry,” she said, “we just got mashed. That okay?”

I was tired, and my patience was slim at this point, I just answered, “Whatever, whatever you got is fine.” I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture.

She turned away, and I saw her throw a nod of her head back at me while looking at the pool players.

Several minutes later, the smallest man at the pool table walked toward mine. I went to high alert. He had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were squinting from the smoke as he looked my way. When he got to my table, he was still carrying his pool cue, his hand was wrapped around it tight as it rested on his shoulder, I noticed tattooed letters above his knuckles. I recognized TINA in script.

“You got a problem, mister?”

I looked him in the eyes without answering. I moved my hands to the edge of the table.

“Why you givin’ my lady a hard time? She’s just doing her job. I need you to apologize to her when she brings your meal. You hear me, man?”

I saw the other two men began to walk across the room to back up their partner. The three men looked related, ugly men, with meanness oozing from their eyes.

“Answer me, mister. You gonna apologize? Or are we cracking you upside your head?”

I didn’t want the other two men to get any closer. I pushed the table hard and fast into the smaller man’s thighs. He stumbled back as I stood. I grabbed his cue at the narrow end with my left hand as he stumbled. I swung it around my head then hard against the right side of his skull. The crack was loud, and it briefly startled his buddies. He dropped to his knees.

The bigger guy to my right pulled a long hunting knife and lounged my way. As he swung it at my face, I hit his wrist hard with the cue. I knew I had broken it. I grabbed his wrist and turned it backward, inflicting more pain as he screamed the knife fell to the ground.

I dropped the cue stick and used my left hand to deliver an open palm strike to his nose. I felt bone break on contact. As he was dropping, I pulled my Desert Eagle from behind my back and pointed it at number three.

Then a loud voice yelled, “That’s enough.”

I glanced to my left and a rain jacketed man with a Stetson dripping water stood there with a shotgun aimed at all four of us.

The third man that was still standing backed away, almost cowering.

Stetson looked at me and asked, “Army?”

“Yep,” I said.

Then he asked, “You got a permit for that cannon?”

“I do.”

“You LEO?” I asked him.

“Federal, Park Ranger, from Flaming Gorge.”

“You gonna arrest me?” I asked.

“Not if you put that gun away.”

I slowly put the Eagle back behind my back under my belt.

Stetson was still looking at me, ignoring the three others. “I know these boys here. They’re trouble. They set strangers up all the time. So I’m going to take your side on this one. Besides, I saw your moves as I walked in the back door. Special ops training’s my guess.”

“Yep, your guess is right.”

“Okay, listen, if you have a room here in town, I’d recommend you grab your belongings now. Move on down the road whatever direction you’re heading. I’ll hold these boys off. Maybe call them an ambulance. Now get moving.”

Then he looked over at short red. “Tina, you stay right there. No calling your kin in on this, lest you want Wayne, Billie, and Ansel to feel my wrath.”

Tina nodded and stood there.

I turned and walked out the front as the rain was heavier than earlier. I jumped in the Four Runner and headed to Motel 8. I got to my room, grabbed my bag, and left my key on the dresser. I didn’t want to talk to the blond in the office again she might have set me up.

I drove out of the lot, got to 80 East, to Cheyenne. I was still tired and hungry, but the adrenaline rush from the bar brawl kept my eyes wide open. I remembered that I didn’t even thank Stetson as I walked out. No matter, I knew he was ex-Army like me, a brother helping out a brother.

I would find food and sleep in Cheyenne. I looked at it in a positive way, just brought me closer to Questa, New Mexico, and Mike Groves.

I made the outskirts of Cheyenne by 0115 hours. I spotted a twenty-four-hour diner. Its neon sign said, “ROSIES.” I pulled in and parked right out front. This was the first open place I had found since I left Rock Springs.

That long dark stretch of road was lonely at this hour. I had only seen two or three sets of headlights coming toward me the whole way, all trucks. I was barely able to keep my eyes open. At the state I was in, I didn’t know if I was more tired or hungry. I needed both food and a place to sleep.

There were seven big rigs lined up in the lot when I pulled in. I thought that was a good sign, at least the food should be fresh and hot.

I walked in the double-glass door unnoticed. No one even gave me a glance. I sat at the counter on the end. There were two ball-capped drivers sitting midway. I sat far enough away so I couldn’t hear their conversation, and they wouldn’t strike one up with me.

A pleasant middle-aged woman, her name tag said Sally, put a cup down in front of me and said, “Looks like you need coffee, sweetie.”

“Fill ’er up,” I said, and she did.

“We got a fresh batch of biscuits right out of the oven, and our gravy is chuck full of bacon. Can I get you a plate?”

“Yep, that sounds about what I need.”

“Comin’ right up.”

I sipped my coffee. The flavor was lacking, but its strength was hard. I sat with my shoulders sagging with fatigue, staring into the dark brown liquid in my cup. I was finally settling down from the events from the night. I had to get some sleep soon. When I ate, I knew a full stomach would only make that sleepy feeling stronger.

Sally soon returned with a steaming plate. I dug in, and the food did not disappoint. When she returned to fill my coffee, I asked her if she knew a good place where I could get a few hours sleep.

She put both hands on the counter and asked, “You a vet?”

“I am,” I replied. “Army, three tours in Afghanistan.”

“Give me a minute,” she said and walked into the back to the kitchen. She came back several minutes later and said, “How fussy are you?”

“Just need a few hours of sleep. Simple and clean would be good.”

“My younger brother works here, dishwasher, was discharged four months ago, did tours over there too. He said you’re welcome to crash at his place. Here’s the address.” She had written it on a napkin. “Just down the street. Keys under the mat. Nothing worth stealing, so he leaves the key out. Says if you’re a brother, the couch is all yours. You okay with that?”

“Yeah, that would be great,” I said.

“And oh,” Sally said, “he didn’t ask, but if you could leave a little somethin’ on his counter, he could really use it.”

I looked at her. There were tears in her eyes.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Hey, it’s a long story. You served over there. You saw it like he did, so you know.”

“Yep.”

I reached across the counter and took her hand. “He’ll be okay,” I said. “Takes time. Be patient and encourage him to talk. There’s lots of vet organizations out there.”

“I hope. I can only hope,” she said back. “There are times I don’t even know who he is. Who came back to me?”

“Hold ’em, hug ’em, don’t let him push you away, and Sally, just the fact that he knows he has brothers like me out here and is willing to help me out, that’s important.”

“So what’s your name?” she asked.

“Jason Orr, Army special ops and ex secret service.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding,” I said.

“Hope you get some rest, Jason.”

I finished my plate, put two twenties on the counter, and walked to the door. I glanced Sallie’s way. She was talking to a trucker down the counter.

She glanced up at me. I tipped my hat as I walked out.

I found the house of Sallie’s brother, small one-bedroom, well-kept. I slept for five hours, on his couch, clothes on, just kicked my boots.

When I woke up, I didn’t snoop around. I respected the man. I left a Benjamin under a mug on the kitchen counter.

The clean crisp morning air greeted me as I walked out the front door of a man I didn’t even know, not even his name. A man willing to share his home with a fellow soldier.

It felt right.