He pulled the chain and then moved his jacket so that only a faint glow reached the rest of the little one-car garage. He saw a few items on the table, and a few more on a wooden shelf, and he took what he needed, turned off the lamp, and felt his way back to the exit.
Minutes later he crossed the street in front of the drug house, his hands empty and nonthreatening. As he approached he heard the sound of industrial heavy metal music coming from inside. He walked up the little driveway, passed the bikes and the Dodge pickup, and climbed up onto the porch. By now the frantic noise was blasting, which was impressive to Court, considering the windows were boarded and the door could not have been more secure.
Looking the door over, he tried to determine the security measures at this entrance. There would be dead bolts and multiple chain locks, and there would be a drop bar or a “dead man,” a large metal shank that secured the door to the wall.
Court knew he would not be entering through that door unless someone on the inside wanted him to, and he didn’t see much of a chance in that.
He banged four times, and the dog in the backyard barked like a maniac.
Seconds later, a four-inch-high and twelve-inch-wide slit opened in the center of the door at chest height, firing a bolt of light across the porch. From the inside, Court heard the loud metal music, and above that a voice high and harsh like a coffee grinder. “What the fuck you want?”
Court leaned down to look into the slot. A bald-headed, shirtless man in his thirties stood back a few feet from the door. His chest and neck were tattooed and glistening with sweat. He held a lit cigarette in his left hand.
Pure white trash.
Court looked over the ink on the man’s chest quickly. The numbers 1 and 2 rode high above his left pec. Court knew the significance. The numbers represented the first and second letters of the alphabet. AB.
This asshole was Aryan Brotherhood.
Court also noticed the man was hiding something in his right hand behind his thigh.
“I said, what do you want, fuckhead?”
“I need a hit.” Court was winging it; he didn’t know the street lingo for meth these days; he’d been out of the States for several years and had never bought meth in his life. He saw the paranoia in the white supremacist’s eyes now as the man realized this wasn’t one of his regular street dealers.
He said, “Get lost.”
“Your guy told me to come here. He said he ran out of stuff.”
“What guy?”
“Skinny dude over at the Exxon on Savannah.”
A younger man stepped up behind the bald man at the door. He had stringy hair and was wearing a wifebeater, and his arms were sleeved with shamrocks and the number 12. He also had 88 on his neck, and Court knew these numbers were representations of the eighth letter of the alphabet. HH.
Heil Hitler.
Charming.
The younger man said, “He’s talkin’ ’bout Junior.”
“Junior, that’s right,” Court confirmed helpfully.
The bald-headed man reached back and punched the kid in the wifebeater in the chest, then shoved him out of Court’s line of sight. He turned back to Court, his eyes wide with both suspicion and anger. “Fuck you. Get off my porch.” He moved his right hand from behind his hip and exposed a black AK-47 assault rifle with a folded stock.
Court raised his hands. “It’s all good, brother. Hook me up and I’ll go.” He pulled the wad of bills out of his pocket, the ten wrapped around the six ones. He held it up but kept it moving in front of his face, hoping it looked like significantly more than sixteen dollars. “See, I’ve got cash.”
“This ain’t McDonald’s drive-through, you stupid fuck! Get out of here!” The man rushed to the door and slid the tiny panel shut. Court heard another male voice, different than that of the two men he’d already heard speak, and then a screaming female. Everyone was shouting over the music, but Court couldn’t understand a word of what was being said.
He hadn’t really expected to be invited in for tea, or for any transaction to take place. This was a stash house, hardly an inviting retail establishment. He just wanted to use the opportunity to get a look at the inside, to judge the defenses, to evaluate the opposition.
Four people in the front room, three males. He had seen just the one rifle, but he imagined each and every one of those drug-addled paranoid freaks inside would be carrying some sort of a weapon.
He had told himself earlier that if he knew there were more than three people inside, he would move on, find another target of opportunity.
But it was getting late, he was getting cold, and four was close enough to three.
He’d continue on with his mission here.
Just to get everyone inside a little more jumpy and overwrought, he knocked again.
“I’m going to kill you!” the bald-headed man shouted. And then, for added emphasis, he added a “Fuck off!”
Court heaved a big sigh. He gave a light “Have a good night,” and he turned and left the porch.
But he did not return to the sidewalk or the street. Instead he walked over to the driveway and looked up at the camera peering down at him. It was on the side of the house, just under the awning, a foot and a half out of Court’s reach. Its lens was centered on the Dodge Ram and the motorcycles.
Court moved to the side of the Ram, and as he did so he reached into his blazer and pulled a hammer from his waistband, an oily shop rag and a lighter from his pocket. He used the claw of the hammer to prize open the fuel door of the vehicle, then he removed the fuel cap and stuffed the oily rag most of the way in the fueling tube.
He lit it quickly.
Court stepped directly under the camera now and tossed the hammer up gently. It hit the camera and knocked the lens so that it pointed up to the rainy sky.
Court caught the hammer as it fell, then he moved up the driveway towards the back gate, but while doing so he turned around and heaved the hammer overhand into the windshield of the Ram. The glass cracked and the vehicle’s shrill alarm began to wail.
6
Two men armed with 12-gauge shotguns raced out the back door of the single-story clapboard house, leapt off the side of the porch, and then charged to the locked gate that led to the driveway. One of the men slowed to release a ninety-pound pit bull from his chain, freeing him to run with the humans towards the noise in the front of the property and the man who had caused it. At the gate, one man unhooked a large, loose padlock from the staple hasp on the wooden fence, then kicked the gate open, his shotgun at the high ready in case someone stood waiting for him there. The dog took off up the driveway, and when the man saw no one in front of him, he ran towards the Dodge pickup to douse the flames licking up the side panel of the truckbed.
The second man followed close behind the first, himself waving his 12-gauge in all directions as he did so. He saw the flaming rag in the gas tank of the Dodge Ram and he hesitated a moment, not knowing if it would explode at any second. But his colleague was either braver or more foolish, and he charged at the flames, desperate to save the vehicle.
Court Gentry knelt in the bushes next to the gate and watched the pit bull bolt from the darkened backyard. The massive black form of muscle and gnashing teeth raced past Court’s position on his way to freedom. Behind the pit, two men, both rail-thin and pasty white, sprinted through the gate, down the driveway, and towards the Dodge Ram, wooden-stocked shotguns out in front of them. One man slowed for a moment, hesitating, but soon enough he headed on, catching up with his friend at the burning shop rag.