Second Chance - Ryan Lock #8 Page 12

  They were there to meet with an infantry staff sergeant by the name of Kyle Miller, a multi-tour combat veteran, still serving out what was likely his last few years. His value to them was two-fold. First, he had inside knowledge of the precise unit they were looking at. Second, and perhaps most crucially, he was prepared to talk, albeit off the record.

  Ty’s cell buzzed. He tapped the answer icon. “Yeah?”

  He listened for a second and gave Lock a nod. It was Miller. “Got it,” said Ty, ending the brief call. “He’s inside. Back booth. Said we can’t miss him.”

  Miller was correct. He was hard to miss. Even sitting down, he was a mountain of a man. He sat, as promised, staring into his beer, at a booth in the very back of Casey’s. The bar was crowded enough that they had to muscle their way through the crowd to get to him.

  Lock pushed his way through the crush at the bar as Ty went to sit down with Miller. With a twenty held out in front of him, he managed to wave down one of three bartenders. He ordered three beers.

  Someone nudged his elbow. He looked round. A guy with a John Deere ball cap scowled at him. “Hey, buddy, I was next.”

  Lock made eye contact and held it, not blinking. He wasn’t in the mood. His lack of a response seemed to throw the guy. He wasn’t following standard-issue bar-fight procedure. He says something, Lock says something, and on it goes until someone throws the first punch.

  The bartender placed three mugs of beer on the bar in front of him. Lock handed him the twenty and told him to keep the change. Gathering up the mugs, he shouldered his way back through the throng as Mr. I Was Next shot him daggers.

  At the booth, he put the beers on the table and slid in next to Ty, who introduced him to Miller. Miller sank what remained of his beer, and moved on to the fresh one.

  “Ty’s brought you up to speed?” Lock asked.

  Miller nodded. Up close he was even more imposing. His biceps were thicker than some guys’ necks. He either spent a lot of time in the gym or he was on the juice. Lock guessed the latter.

  “I’ve been expecting a call like this for a while now,” Miller said.

  “You know the guys on the tape?” he asked him.

  After Ty had spoken to Miller earlier that day, he had sent him some screengrabs of the security-camera footage from the office building.

  “I couldn’t say for sure which one it was. But it was at least one of them.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  Miller took a gulp of his beer, draining almost half of it, and stared down at the mug. “How come the third beer is never quite as good as the first?”

  Lock took the question to be rhetorical.

  Miller hunched forward a little across the table toward them. “I’m as sure as I can be. I only ever saw that ink on guys from that team. It wouldn’t have any meaning to anyone else.”

  So they were military. Lock decided to leave the obvious questions, such as ‘What team?’ to one side, and give him the space to tell them the story in his own way. “The floor’s yours.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Before I get into the nuts and bolts, the first thing you guys have to understand is that the army I joined back before those fuckheads plowed those planes into us isn’t the army we have now.”

  Ty gave a sage nod of agreement. Declining standards in the military was one of the few topics beyond sports, women and raising hell that he got truly passionate about. It was a recurring theme that stretched back over the generations. The guys who fought now weren’t as good as the guys who had gone into Iraq and Afghanistan. And, of course, according to the Vietnam vets, those guys weren’t made out of the same stuff as them. In turn the men who had ground it out in Vietnam weren’t fit to wipe the asses of those who had served their country in World War Two. And so on and so forth.

  But Lock knew from his own experience that Miller was about to make a slightly different point. One that rested more on verifiable facts than a rose-tinted view of how great the good old days had been when everyone next to you in the army was a stand-up guy and an all-American hero.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Miller. “I’ve served with some great individuals, the best of the best.”

  Lock sensed the “but” just around the corner.

  “After we went into Iraq and realized we just didn’t have the bodies we needed to do the job, well, let’s just say that there were guys allowed to join who would have never got past the recruiting office back in the day.”

  Lock had a feeling he wasn’t talking about their physical shape. That was something the military was good at: taking your average couch potato in their late teens or early twenties and turning them into something approaching a ready-for-action soldier.

  “Guys who were banging, or who already had jackets, and then there were guys like the ones I’m talking about who were straight-up Nazis or skinheads.”

  That translated as active street-gang members, people with criminal records, and the white supremacist crowd, some of whom had found their way into the Big Green because it was better than their current life or offered them a way out. And others who joined up for more nefarious reasons. In the case of white supremacists and their ilk, either because they wanted to legally kill brown people or because they figured that the skills the army could provide would come in handy in civilian life Stateside.

  “I’m guessing these guys weren’t gangbangers,” Lock said, trying to steer Miller back to the men who likely had Carmen.

  “How’d you run into them and how many of them are we talking about here?” Ty asked him.

  Miller drained the last of his beer. “There was six.”

  Ty and Lock exchanged a look. Six?

  They were going to need another round of beers.

  40

  “As far as I can tell,” said Miller, settling back into the booth with a fresh beer “it started with Point and Rance. They hooked up in basic. Point was a Hammerskin and Rance was with some other white power group, but they somehow managed to stay together all the way to deployment. They were the start of it all.”

  The Hammerskins were the most prominent of numerous white supremacist skinhead groups. They were noted for their love of white power music (driving punk rock with racist lyrics) and their willingness to engage in acts of violence, most often directed against minorities or gay, lesbian and transgender people.

  Formed in Dallas, Texas, in the late eighties they had a presence in cities across the country and a number of affiliated international groups in countries as far apart as Germany and Australia. Structured similarly to outlaw motorcycle gangs, such as the Hells Angels and the Mongols, the Hammerskins made members earn membership, often by committing acts of violence.

  Membership entitled them to wear a Hammerskins ‘patch’, a fabric badge sewn onto a jacket or, for more devoted members, the Hammerskins logo (two hammers crossed to resemble a pair of goose-stepping legs) tattooed onto their body.

  “No one did any checks when they joined up?” Lock asked Miller.

  A wry smile spread across his face. “Don’t ask, don’t tell covered a lot more shit than anyone really knows. Recruiters had targets to hit. Hell, Point even had a bunch of ink on his arms. Lightning bolts. Crossed hammers. I found out later that when the recruiter asked him what it was, he told him it was stuff he saw in the ink shop that he thought looked really cool. End of discussion. Recruiter had his target to hit.”

  “What about later on?” said Ty.

  “Did people ask questions? Sure they did. But here’s the thing. Point and Rance from an army point of view? They were like gold dust.” Miller took another sip of beer. “It wasn’t just that they were good soldiers. They were hardcore. You needed to go outside the wire on some suicide mission? Them and their buddies were the go-to guys. They loved action. Loved it. They were like our answer to the Taliban or the insurgents. Didn’t care too much whether they came back safe or not as long as they got a chance to go out there and light up some bad guys.” He spread his arms.
“If you’re a commander, what’s not to love about that?”

  “Tell me about their buddies in the unit,” Lock said. “There were six of them, right? I’m assuming they didn’t come in as Hammerskins too.”

  “No, they got drawn in after they were placed in that particular unit. You both served?” Miller asked, looking from Ty to him. They nodded. “So you know how it goes,” Miller continued. “You take a small group of guys, most of them still wet behind the ears, and they go along with whoever has the biggest set of balls. Or whoever the alpha male of the group is.”

  “And who was the alpha?” he asked

  “Point, by a mile. Dude had charisma. Even I’d give him that much. And he took care of business for everyone in that unit.”

  “But he was just a grunt?” Lock prompted.

  “At the start. But about three missions in their squad leader took a bullet during a patrol. Point stepped in to fill the vacuum.”

  “So do you have any idea who our guy is?” Lock said, pulling out a fresh copy of the screengrab of the masked kidnapper with the tattoo.

  “Not for definite, but I’d bet good money it’s one of them. They all had that tattoo when I ran into them.”

  “And they’re still serving?” Ty asked.

  “That I don’t know for sure. But it should be easy enough to find out. I can email you all their names.”

  “We’d appreciate that.”

  His mug was close to empty again. Lock had one remaining question. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another picture. He placed it on the table in front of him, and shifted it around so Freya Vaden’s face was staring up at Miller.

  Before he’d even asked, Miller took a look and a fresh smile lit up his face. “The White Queen,” he said, jabbing a finger at the photograph. “That’s what they called her.”

  41

  They headed out of Lancaster, Miller’s last words of caution ringing in their ears. These are dangerous men. They’re well trained, battle-hardened, and they’re plenty used to killing.

  As Lock drove, Ty pulled up searches on his phone of the four names that Miller had provided. One was dead, killed in action five years before. Another had been convicted of a racially motivated attempted murder and was doing a dime in Leavenworth. That left them with the two men Miller had told them about.

  Before they’d left Miller had told them more about Point and Rance’s fascination with Freya Vaden. Since Ty and Lock had caught up with her in San Francisco, Freya a.k.a. Chance, had, unsurprisingly, become an icon of the white power movement. A living martyr. After the first attempt on the life of the president and his family, she had tried to finish the job. Not only that, but her birth father had been a leading member of the Aryan Brotherhood, a prison gang close to white supremacist royalty. On top of all of that, with her blond hair and blue eyes, she was the epitome of what white supremacists saw as the physically ideal woman. To men like Point and Rance, she must have appeared to be like some fairytale princess, sealed off in a high tower by the evil forces of the federal government.

  Not only, Miller told them, did they carry a picture of her with them, they had taken their adoration one step further. Several of the men in the unit, Point included, had written to her. And, with plenty of time on her hands, she had written back.

  “So, what do you think, Ryan?” Ty asked him, glancing up from his phone. “Handle this ourselves or turn it over?”

  In Lock’s mind there was only one possible answer. He wasn’t going to let anything, his ego or thirst for revenge, get in the way of Carmen’s safe return.

  “Let the LAPD, the Feds, and the USMP deal. We can keep trucking, but we’re going to have to let them know what our moves are so we don’t step on their toes.”

  “Agreed,” said Ty.

  Under the circumstances, it was the only call. Lock planned to stay on the trail as long as he could, but he and Ty couldn’t possibly compete with the resources those three agencies could bring to bear. The only thing they had to worry about was letting this crew know they were on to them. If they realized that, they might not want to leave Carmen alive as a witness. Hence it was important he shared whatever move he made next with the authorities.

  Ty’s cell buzzed with an incoming call. He flashed the screen in his direction as he glanced over. It was Staff Sergeant Miller. Before they’d left him he’d promised to make some calls on their behalf and see if he could raise some current information on where Point and Rance were, these days.

  “Here, I’ll put him on speaker.” Ty tapped the screen, taking the call.

  “Hey, Sarge,” said Ty. “Just to let you know, Ryan’s with me, and I have you on speaker.”

  Miller didn’t respond.

  “Sergeant Miller, are you there?”

  The voice that responded didn’t belong to Miller, but Lock was sure he’d heard it before.

  “Miller’s gone. And if you say one word to the cops your lawyer bitch girlfriend will be going the same way.”

  Before the person at the other end finished, Lock spun the wheel, cutting across a lane of traffic, the rental car thumping over the median as he headed back toward Ventura and Casey’s pub. “I didn’t plan on speaking to the cops,” he lied.

  “That’s good.”

  “But if you don’t hurry up and tell me what you want and when you plan on releasing Carmen, I won’t have any choice.”

  “Understood, we appreciate your patience,” the man said. “But don’t worry, it won’t be much longer.”

  42

  It didn’t take them long to find Miller. As they hit the outskirts of Lancaster, an ambulance and two Ventura County Sheriff’s Department patrol cars blew past them, sirens and lights working overtime. Lock tucked the rental car in behind them, and followed.

  Their route took them straight back to where they had met Miller: Casey’s. Lock parked a block south. They got out and walked back toward what was now an active crime scene.

  Patrol cops were busy securing the area. Casey’s had been sealed off, its patrons corralled inside for questioning. He could imagine that more than a few of them wouldn’t be entirely resistant to the idea of being locked inside a bar.

  A small crowd had already gathered on the sidewalk. He scanned the faces for Point or Rance. He didn’t recognize anyone. Neither did Ty.

  A patrol cop wandered down toward the crowd of looky-loos. “Anybody see anything?”

  Even though he’d likely been the last person to speak with Miller, Lock wasn’t about to start talking to any cops. Not in public view, and certainly not after the warning he’d just received from Miller’s cell phone.

  His cell. It was a long shot, but occasionally long shots came in.

  He stepped back from the crowd, dug his own cell phone out of his pocket and called Stanner.

  Without revealing the detail of the information Miller had given them, he quickly brought him up to speed on the meeting and how they’d just discovered that the man they’d been speaking with had been attacked. He told him that the assailants might still have Miller’s phone and Stanner might want to try to locate it. As he finished the call, Ty looped back to find him.

  “What’s the story?” Lock asked.

  Ty shrugged. “Came out of the bar, and took four bullets from a guy in a car. Two in the chest, two in the head. Was probably dead before he hit the deck. Guess they snatched his cell, split, and called to give us the good news.”

  “Okay. In that case there’s no point hanging around here.”

  They started back toward the car. Lock threw a couple of glances over his shoulder to see if any of the cops, or anyone else for that matter, was watching them. No one was. No one that he could see anyway.

  43

  “So what now?” Ty asked, vocalizing the question that Lock had been turning over in his mind for the past half-hour.

  “I don’t know. The Feds and the cops have a better shot at running them down than we do.”

  “But if they find
out we gave the cops the info then Carmen’s in even deeper than she is at the moment,” Ty said, finishing up for him.

  Lock loosened his grip on the wheel a touch. “Maybe we’re both asking ourselves the wrong question.”

  “So what’s the right one, Ryan?”

  “Why are they doing this?”

  “Isn’t that kind of obvious now?” said Ty.

  “Is it?”

  Ty reached down to push the seat all the way back. Like most cars, the rental wasn’t constructed for a man of his size. “Miller pretty much told us,” said Ty. “These boys have a thing for Chance. We’re responsible for chasing her down and making sure she was put behind bars. All she needed to do was drop your name into the conversation and that would be enough.”

  “So why not just kill me? Going by what they just did to Miller, they could have popped up any time and taken me out. I probably wouldn’t even have seen it coming. They would have had the element of surprise going for them.”

  Ty took a moment to chew that over. “They could have, but maybe killing you wasn’t enough. Maybe they wanted to fuck with you first. Then kill you.”

  He had a point. It didn’t entirely answer Lock’s question. But it went a long ways toward doing that. Death wasn’t always enough. He could see that Chance, rotting away in a maximum-security prison, just like her father before her, would want him to suffer. And the best way of making someone suffer was to target those they loved.

  But Ty’s theory also had its drawbacks. Lock was suffering, but he was also on guard. The element of surprise was gone. They had to know that hurting Carmen would make the hunters the hunted.

  He put that to Ty. His response was a heave of his wide shoulders. “There’s five of them, plus who else? And there’s one of you, two if they include me. You going to tell me that guys like that don’t feel safe with those odds? From what Miller told us, these guys are tough. Real tough. Killed-motherfuckers-in-cold-blood tough.”