Feeling the gunman trying to regain control of his weapon as he fell into the truck, Gallen increased his grip on the gun wrist, stabbed his fingers into the man’s eyeballs and then got both of his hands onto the gun wrist.
The thug regained balance against the truck and lashed out with a knee which caught Gallen in the groin. But the hold he had on the man’s wrist was firm and, pushing the gun down against the inside of the man’s forearm, Gallen forced all of his weight behind a downwards jerk of the wrist lock, breaking the gunman’s wrist and forearm in one quick movement.
Screams echoed as Gallen watched the gun bounce on the concrete.
‘Y’all hold it right there,’ came the deep drawl from behind him as Gallen retrieved the Beretta from the ground, steam blowing out of his panting mouth.
Turning, he came face to face with Will Andrews, the owner of the bar, Winchester .30–30 tucked into his right armpit.
‘Actually, you can hold it right here, Willy,’ said Gallen, handing him the gun as Yvonne helped the lawyer to his feet. ‘I got a beer to finish.’
‘What about this shit?’ Will’s moustache twitched with annoyance as he looked around the car park.
‘Call the sheriff,’ said Gallen, as Yvonne took a free kick at her ex-husband’s face. ‘I’ll be at the front table.’
CHAPTER 38
Barry stood on the brakes and readied to swing his truck into the farm’s driveway.
‘I still don’t see how no Army truck driver could do that, Gerry,’ he said, flicking his smoke into the darkness. ‘You telling me everything?’
‘I just reacted,’ said Gallen, tired and a bit drunk.
‘The dude had a gun, Gerry! Chrissakes.’
In the distance, Gallen saw something. Putting his left hand out, he grabbed Barry’s forearm. ‘Just a minute.’
‘What?’ said Barry, pausing in the road outside Sweet Clover. ‘Deer?’
Gallen scanned the darkness of the road. ‘Hit the lights, Barry. Dash lights too.’
Turning off the headlights and reducing the dash lights to zero, Barry eased back in his seat, rubbing his face. ‘What’s going on? ‘
‘There,’ said Gallen, as headlights a half-mile down the road flashed on and off several times.
‘What is that?’ said Barry, his voice betraying nerves.
‘It’s morse.’
‘I don’t know about—’
‘Let’s go,’ said Gallen, pointing at the flashing headlights.
‘Look, this is not really—’
‘He’s friendly.’
Barry’s voice squeaked like an adolescent’s. ‘How do you know?’
‘’Cos he just called me.’
‘With those flashes?’
‘Yeah. They said B.O.S.S.’
Gallen thanked Barry for the ride and climbed into Kenny’s truck.
‘What’s up?’ said Gallen, smelling hours of cigarettes as he sat on something in the passenger seat.
‘That phone of yours don’t work,’ said Winter, eyes focused on the faint glow of the farmhouse lights. Roy was probably drinking, watching the NHL highlights.
‘It smashed,’ said Gallen, lighting a smoke and pulling the envelopes from under his ass. ‘This yours?’
‘You had mail.’
Looking at it, Gallen saw two envelopes: one, a white foolscap with the logo of Marcia’s lawyers in Tucson. Throwing it onto the back seat, Gallen saw the brownish security envelope and registered-mail stickers of the second one. Tearing it open, he pulled out his new passport.
Shoving it in his inside pocket, he followed Winter’s gaze to the farmhouse. ‘What’ve we got? ‘
‘Bell TV van turns up half an hour after you left,’ said Winter. ‘You expecting maintenance?’
‘Nope.’
‘Dish upgrade?’
‘Nope. So Roy let ‘em in?’ said Gallen.
‘Yep. I was watching from the tree line. They spent thirty-five minutes in there.’
‘How many?’
‘Two technician guys,’ said Winter. ‘Coveralls and clipboards. But there was this other dude in the van.’
‘He get out?’
‘No. I saw him between the front seats; he was sitting in back.’
‘And?’
‘And I was wondering what he was doing in there when I realised the air vent was turning on the top of the van. With no wind.’ ‘Surveillance camera?’
‘That was my guess.’
‘Okay,’ said Gallen, hissing out the tension between his teeth.
‘I tried calling but you answered and then, I dunno. Sounded like a woman screaming.’
‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ said Gallen, his senses on alert. ‘So I guess the house is bugged. You speak to Roy about this?’
Winter shook his head, eyes not leaving the farmhouse. ‘Nope. Grabbed the truck and been sitting out here half the night, trying to make sure you don’t go in.’
‘Out-fucking-standing,’ said Gallen. ‘Which way they leave?’
‘This way,’ Winter said, jacking his thumb in reverse. ‘I been up and down this line for an hour and they ain’t parked down here.’
Gallen thought about it. ‘On a neighbouring property?’
Winter shrugged.
‘Got any glasses?’
Pulling a set of Bushnell night-vision binoculars from the door pocket, Winter handed them over. Getting out, Gallen leaned his elbows on the hood of the truck, slowly scanning the area around the farmhouse and the road with the illuminated black-and-white view. He could see a horse tail flashing in the yards past the house and the binoculars also picked up a large porcupine trying to climb a cedar that grew between the farmhouse and the old orchard. But no human shapes, no men moving around, no plumes of steam erupting from people talking in their hide.
It wasn’t just the immediate danger of an assassin or a snatch-artist who would be lurking close to the house, waiting for him or Winter to show up, that worried Gallen. There was also the matter of the listening post: where it was, what vehicle it was sitting in and who was inside listening.
Some transmitters had ranges of up to ten miles but most professionals in the surveillance game preferred the reliability of the short-range bugs. It meant there was likely a van with a bunch of coffee-drinking listeners in a close radius; they weren’t on the road but that didn’t mean they weren’t around.
Gallen got back in the truck, which had the interior light switched off. ‘Well, I guess we’re blown,’ he said, wishing he hadn’t drunk so much beer. ‘We can’t stay here.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ said Winter.
‘Any ideas on who they are?’
Winter ground his teeth. ‘I saw something when I caught that dude hiding in the van.’
‘What?’
‘He looked familiar. Black guy, about thirty. Only caught a glimpse of his face through the windscreen, but I think I’ve seen him before.’
‘Military? Intel?’
‘Maybe, Gerry — but the other one? I was certain about him.’
‘The other one?’
‘The lead guy, when they were knocking at the door.’
‘Who was it?’
‘It was the dude who looked like a lawyer in the SUV behind the bar.’
Gallen shook his head in confusion.
‘In Los Angeles,’ said Winter, dragging on his smoke.
Gallen envisioned the scene behind the Spanish bar at Marina Del Rey. ‘Shit, those guys?’
‘It was him,’ said Winter. ‘We’ve been made.’