Patience County War (Madeleine Toche Series) (20 page)

“Weapons, Jeffe?” Marco, the taller, leaner man, said in a quiet voice.

Paco regarded the man and his memory went back to a jungle a long time ago, and how Marco was so cool in combat, detached and machine like. He was as dependable as the sun that beat down outside the awning, and just as deadly.

“The Patron will provide what we need. I have compiled a list. If you feel there are other things that we need just say so.”

Both men looked at the list, which included a small arsenal of automatic weapons, RPGs, explosives, and high tech gear. Based on the list they immediately reassessed the situation.

“We are going into formal combat.” It wasn’t a question from Philippe, just a statement of fact.

Paco smiled at him, it was hard not to. He was a true comrade in arms. Every bit as reliable as Marco, he was the opposite in every way. Even when things were their worst and morale was the lowest, Philippe would joke or cajole with the men. Both men commanded respect, Marco more through quiet intimidation. The men loved Philippe. It was always obvious that their safety was his first concern. A man would rather be put through physical hell than lose his respect. He now worked alongside his men in peace the way he did in war.

“We will begin to train in two days, both physical and weapons training. We will need to train for house to house and wilderness. We are going to Missouri, USA. The woods are not as dense as jungle, but provide their own set of problems.”

“Snakes, Jeffe?” Philippe asked.

“Some, and they don’t rattle,” Paco responded.

The men laughed. Men who worked outside in arid desert-like conditions most of the time usually carried small caliber pistols for snakes.

“I was more worried about how they tasted, Heffe. You know, fried up with a little salt and lime?”

Carlos sat at a table at a family restaurant just outside of St. Louis and spoke to a middle aged man across from him who was probably the most forgettable looking individual he had ever seen. His name was Smith, no first name. He was neither tall, nor short, nor heavy, nor thin. From time to time the organization would call in his services for gathering information when it was best not to arouse suspicion. He certainly did not look Hispanic at all. He looked Midwestern normal. He was medium height
medium weight. He sat motionlessly wearing a baseball cap with the visor pulled down. He had no scars, no moles, no smile and no personality.

“I need recon on this man,” Carlos slid over a picture of Sam Trunce. The man looked at it but made no effort to pick it up. “I need to know his habits, where he goes and what he does and who he cares for. Take no action. Go in with cover and don’t be discovered.”

Abruptly the conversation was over and Smith got up and left the table, moving silently. None of the other diners looked up. It never ceased to amaze Carlos that Smith could participate in a conversation without speaking. As usual, he had taken an assignment without uttering a word. Creepy, but it made sense. Carlos would receive a report posted in code on an obscure message board in a few days. It would be complete, both tactically and otherwise. The man had other talents, and perhaps this whole matter would still be solved with the accidental death of one sheriff, nice and quiet.

Smith left the restaurant and crossed a parking lot in front of a large chain grocery store. He removed his false mustache and wig and popped out two contacts that changed the color of his eyes. He knew his business. He did not like to kill, nor did he have any specific political affiliation. He simply carried out what he had been trained to do against targets who had involved themselves one way or another in a dangerous game. Sometimes the targets were political, military, or law enforcement, other times, private individuals. He did not kill women or children, except collaterally and only under extreme circumstances. He did not make mistakes. He could make the trip quite easily, and with the aid of a small digital camera, get all of the information he needed. The pay was good and this wasn’t a hit, at least not yet. But his intelligence gathering skills allowed him to assess from both a strategic assassination perspective and a combat one. He would do both.

I
n a dusty brown sedan of indeterminate pedigree, Smith drove past the worn ‘Welcome to Patience’ sign and down the town’s main strip. Nothing unusual about this place, he thought. Looks like small town main street USA wherever you go. He drove past a bank on the corner and saw a medium sized grocery store and pulled into the parking lot. On these types of recon missions, he liked to pick up a couple of bags of groceries. Besides, he needed a couple of chew bones for the old beagle spread over the back seat. In his mind, a man walking a dog was about the best cover you can get, especially an old, half blind, couch lump like Cochise. The dog was about as unlike his fierce warrior namesake as a dog could be. He’d buy a nice steak and some charcoal and grill in the park by the river he saw next to the small motel he had passed on the way into town. Just passing through. He mused that his conduct might seem awfully domestic to the men and governments that hired him to kill people, but that was his job, not his life. He didn’t have an immediate family of his own, just a brother and sister, both on the west coast, and some extended family. They thought he was in insurance. In a way he was.

As he exited the grocery he saw a squad car rolling by, driven by a largish man with dirty blond hair and ray ban sunglasses on. He immediately identified the driver as the primary target of his surveillance. Without rushing he put the groceries in the back seat with the dog and pulled out onto the street and followed the squad, keeping it a few blocks ahead. The squad pulled into the parking lot of what had to be the sheriff’s station. What the building lacked in ugly it made up for in sheer intimidation quality. He had seen bomb shelters that looked like quaint cabins compared to this thing. He fully expected to see rifle ports in the side of the walls and crenellations in the entryway for the defenders to rain boiling oil down on their enemies. He did not like what he saw. Whoever built that thing was a man who held his ground and was prepared to fight back. He noted a couple other squads there and made mental notes about troop strength. For him it was automatic, from years of training and legitimate government missions, at least sanctioned by the government at some level. Given that it was later in the afternoon, he parked his car a couple of blocks from the station and hooked the dog to a leash and walked and waited. His hunch was correct: it had been a whistle stop by the man to check on things, another indication of competence. It may have been routine, but adhering to routine, especially for security reasons, meant the man was diligent and observant. A picture of his adversary started to form in the man’s mind.

He put the dog back in the car and followed the squad at a discrete distance to a large house on the outskirts of town. To his surprise it was a restaurant. He changed his dinner plans, cracked the window for the dog and went inside. He was seated at a small table near a side window with a view of the river that meandered by. He was immediately struck by the quality of the smells that permeated the dining area. No wonder the man came here. If it tasted as good as it smelled he was in for a treat. So far on this job he had broken no laws, and he intended to act as such and allow himself a little pleasure. As he looked over the menu, he noticed the man sitting with an older woman, a young boy and a strikingly beautiful woman in her early thirties. They conversed and laughed with ease, and he could tell at this distance that there was chemistry between the man and the dark and beautiful woman who sat quite close to him. Smith enjoyed his meal. He had a fine vegetable soup with as delicate a broth as he had ever eaten, followed by a piece of trout that tasted like it had just swum onto his plate along with a sprinkling of butter and fine herbs. The main
course was Daube served in a small ceramic pot with a lid. He had a salad with vinaigrette and selected two cheeses from a cart his waitress brought to the table, a goat cheese and a piece of Monbriac, which he was shocked to find here in the Missouri sticks. He had a half carafe of the house red. It had to be a Cote Du Rhone or something similar. This place was a gem. Then he caught in the distance, presumably on the way into the kitchen, an exchange of French, and it all made sense.

During his meal his target left, but he had done enough surveillance for the day. One mistake that amateurs made was to rush a job and attract attention. He had learned to tailor the action to the situation, and at present there was no urgency.

Sam had that prickly feeling that somebody was watching him but he couldn’t see any evidence of it. It hadn’t spoiled his time with Christine or her son. He had been making excuses to go to the restaurant, and she seemed to be mysteriously running into him around town. He had just suggested a fishing excursion after the boy went back in the kitchen. Christine had accepted and in broken English, said that she would pack a lunch for two. He couldn’t have been happier. The kid was great, but he thought it was time to see if there were any sparks. All the signs were there. He felt very different about this relationship. It consumed his thoughts, and while he had had other relationships in the past, they lacked any depth, at least from his side. His heart had been in some, but those times it was much more like he had followed a path that he felt he was expected to. Maybe his standards were high or he valued his freedom. Everything was out the window here. It was funny the way that his friends and family looked at the two of them. It was if they saw something he couldn’t see. To Sam it seemed that everything was a little brighter, and his problems were less important. He wondered about the potential for retaliation from the Meth boys as the days went by, but he followed his father’s advice. Not everyone who seeks revenge is a wild idiot. It is the act of revenge, not when it happens, that’s important. The best example was when the unborn son of a murdered father grows up and kills the murderer. Sam didn’t want the waiting to go on forever, and knew that with Tracy pushing from his end either the battle would come to them, or he would take the battle wherever it needed to go. Drug wars among the Mexican gangs were rampant, and he had no compunction about joining them for a few days. He also expected to hear from the East St. Louis connection soon. There was going to be a fight somewhere.

J
unior Carter drove a borrowed pickup truck down the highway, through Patience and toward John Trunce’s home. He had been there on a couple of occasions when it had been best for him to be outside of St. Louis. His old commander never asked any questions and trusted that if Junior had done any killing, it had been of somebody that needed killing. By definition, cops, women, kids, and civilians did not need killing, as John had casually mentioned once upon a time. That was fine with Junior. Killing was costly; it made people uncomfortable, and that was bad for business. It was more the threat of it that kept people in line, except when other killers try to run you and your killers out of a territory, that’s different. Junior wasn’t much for the drug end of things, but you couldn’t have drug dealers moving into your area. He made his money the old fashioned way: numbers, hookers, theft, and protection here and there. All tried and true and what people wanted, and generally, fairly peaceful.

Junior pulled his hat down and kept his huge mirrored sunglasses on. He didn’t want to feel conspicuous in an area that had a very small black
population, one that largely consisted of a giant, a Masai princess and his friend and comrade, Joseph. Junior didn’t hate white people, but couldn’t help mumbling, “Man, I am driving through Cracker Ville USA here.”

He drove through the front gate of John Trunce’s property, over a short bridge, and down a gravel road. The woods had grown even thicker since he’d been here last. He peered into the woods and brambles on either side of the road, and thought how much he wouldn’t want to be the guy coming up the road to do harm. As he pulled into the courtyard area, John walked from around the side of the shed and up to his door.