Peak Oil (2 page)

He opened the door and nimbly lowered himself down from the cabin. He checked the output-valve tap and made sure the hydraulic lines were clear, an old habit he had developed over the years. He loved his baby; better to be safe than sorry.

Bubba glanced over his shoulder at the young blonde man as they plodded into town. “How ya’ keeping up back there?” he hollered.
 

The man smiled and gave the thumbs up. He pulled a large duffel bag on wheels, wiping some sweat from his brow with a red bandana. “Just fine, thanks.”

The fellow was nice. Andrew Jackson. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-four or twenty-five. He was tall, maybe six foot five. Apparently he had travelled Europe for a couple of months, and now his folks wanted him to settle down. The job offer came out of the blue, he said. He had put his CV and a profile photo onto some website. The following day, Mr. Fitch phoned him personally.
 

Jackson told Bubba he had been looking for something in the hospitality industry, but Mr. Fitch had made him an offer that was right up his alley.
Good ol’ Mr. Fitch, he sure looks after his own. Yessiree.

Bubba looked up as a red Chevy hatch sped by, and he waved his arms. “C’mon, help a guy out here!” he shouted.
 

The car slowed down, and the backup lights came on. Jackson jogged toward it, the large duffel bag swinging behind him as he ran.

As Bubba jogged closer, Jackson exchanged a greeting with the driver and then laughed and slapped his knee. They spoke in a funny language—Hispanic or some other foreign shit. The young man turned to Bubba and waved him over. “C’mon, we have a lift.”

A door opened, and they slid into the backseat. Two men turned around and greeted them. “Bonjour, monsieur,” the driver said. “Welcome aboard.”
 

Bubba nodded curtly. “Thanks, mister.”
 

The driver slammed the car into gear, and they sped off toward Dabbort.

Mac McAllister cast a furtive glance up the road. The streets were empty. A pale moon shone through the cloudy tendrils drifting in a starless sky. He peered up the hill toward the Ocelot Inn. Probably unoccupied—always was—but the neon sign flashed dutifully on and off with a fluorescent glow.
 

Missy never put the darn thing off; she was probably hoping for some walk-in overnighters. He smiled at the two men snoring on the bench. “You boys ain’t giving Missy any business tonight, no siree.”

She didn’t need the business. She was plenty fine off, if he were to believe the rumor mill. Poor, lonely woman.

Mac opened the back of the mortuary van. He sauntered to the blonde guy. He was a dead ringer. He heaved the man over his shoulder, dumping him in the back of the van. The other guy was shorter and skinnier. Both were looking the worse for wear, beaten shitless.
 

Mac removed the shorter guy’s wallet and passport. He flipped it open, just to make sure. “Reg Voelkner, French citizen.” He nodded, pulled him into the back of the truck, and bound the men’s arms and legs.
 

McAllister looked up as a pair of lights bounced up and down on the main strip, a mile away. He glanced at his watch. The next tanker, right on time.

He slammed the doors and jumped into the driver’s side of the vehicle. He shifted the car in gear and gunned the gas. The car shot forward, spraying the bus stop with flying gravel.
 

Mac McAllister lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat, puffing contentedly. He looked up in the rearview and smiled as one of the men groaned. They may be hungover now, but they were going to need a lot of liquid to recover from the beauty treatment he had planned for them.
 

Alexa gulped down the tequila and then bit into the lemon. She screwed up her face in disgust, but the barman had already refilled her glass. This was going to be a long night. She glanced at Neil. He was staring at her, cupping his chin in his hand. She shrugged. “What?”

He smiled at her with his boyish grin. “You’re beautiful.”

Alexa leaned back against the bar. “And you’re drunk.”

He chuckled. “Getting there. Besides, doesn’t make you any less pretty.”

She folded her arms. “Hey, I’m no pushover, buster.”

“C’mon, Alex, that’s not what I meant.”
 

She licked her lower lip as a stocky man with a skew nose punched Neil playfully on the shoulder and handed him a drink. Neil tore his eyes away from Alexa to accept it.

Two weeks ago, Neil had suggested they visit his family in Texas, and she had readily accepted.
 

They were a boisterous bunch, but they hadn’t taken kindly to Alexa in the beginning. She was a
gaje
—an outsider. But Neil wasn’t the quintessential gypsy, either. He had joined the army after completing high school, something unheard of in the traveling community.
 

He had told her the army was in his blood; wasn’t it what gypsies originally were? Traveling soldiers, mercenaries?

Alexa's phone rang and she muttered an excuse, scampering to the exit to get away from the noise. She slid her thumb over the phone. “
Bonjour
, General.”

“Alexa, my girl. I’m fine, how are you?” General Laiveaux answered in French.
 

Alexa smiled, happy to talk to her commander for the first time in weeks. “I’m fine, thank you, General. Getting to know Neil’s family.”

“Ah, yes,” the general said, sounding distracted. “Quite a fortunate coincidence, my girl. I need your help once again.”

The old fox, he always had some reason. “Yes, General?” Alexa asked with a frown. “My flight is booked for the day after tomorrow. I’ll be back at the Legionnaire headquarters in two days’ time.”

“Captain Guerra, the League needs your services now more than ever,” the general said, hesitating a moment before continuing. “But not in France.”
 

Alexa snapped her fingers. “Okay, please continue,” Alexa answered, willing Laiveaux to get to his point.

“Very well, then. We followed up on Metcalfe’s distribution network, and a certain name popped up on several occasions.”

This information piqued her interest. Senator Robert Metcalfe had run a human trafficking ring; he had made snuff movies of young girls. Interpol was following up on the whereabouts of their parents as well as tracing the recipients of the movies to bring them to justice. “Yes, General?”

“Portions of the snuff films were e-mailed, and we managed to trace the destination address to a certain individual.”

Alexa rolled her eyes. Laiveaux had a manner of building up to the crux of a story, and he was stretching this out for effect. She clicked her fingers impatiently. “Yes, General?”

“A gentleman called Anderson Fitch,” Laiveaux said, pausing for effect.

Alexa stood up straight. “Andy Fitch, the Texan oil billionaire?”
 

“Yes,” Laiveaux grunted. He continued in a disgusted tone. “We sent two Interpol agents to question Monsieur Fitch.”

“Who?”

“Voelkner and Latorre.”

“Okay,” she said, smiling at two young women who waved at her. “What have they found?”

“Well, they haven’t reported back yet. Their last communication was seventy-two hours ago,” Laiveaux said with an irritated tone. “And we’re starting to get edgy.”
 

Alexa bit her lower lip. Voelkner and Latorre had been her fellow troops at the French Foreign Legion. They had saved her life more than once. “Where are they?”
 

“The last time we heard from them, they were in Houston. They were on their way to a small town called Dabbort Creek, a hundred and fifty miles southeast of your current location.”

“Why?”
 

“We don’t know. That was their last message.”

Alexa turned around and marched back to the tent. “Very well, General. I’ll get Neil. We’re leaving now.”

“Excellent, Captain. I’ll e-mail you the intel we have. I must admit, it’s sparse. We have an approximate address.” He hesitated for a second but then cleared his throat. She guessed he was worried about her safety. “Good day, my girl. Be careful.”

“
Au revoir
, General.” She disconnected the call. The general’s tone told her more than his spoken words. She was starting to get worried now.
 

Alexa made her way through the milling crowd toward a group of people gathered around Neil. They laughed and told stories, their hands waving and gesticulating in the air. Neil looked up at her. She jerked her head toward the exit, and he stood up and excused himself, following her outside.

“What’s up?” he asked, slipping his arm around her waist.

“Have you ever heard of a place called Dabbort Creek, Texas?”

Neil thought for a moment. “As a matter of fact, I have. We passed through there when I was a kid.” He scratched his chin. “Didn’t have much going on. Why?”

Alexa shrugged. “We’re going on a road trip,” she said and pulled him toward their caravan. “Courtesy of the French government.”

Neil hummed to Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song” as they drove the scenic route into town. He squinted and peered ahead. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, a hazy mirage shimmering on the tarmac ahead.
 

After a few miles, the road started a gentle climb as they wound their way up the side of the foothill to the town above. When they caught up to a large tanker truck, Neil was forced to slow down.
 

For the first time in his life, he felt happy, content with the hand he had been dealt. He glanced sideways at Alexa. She smiled, her green eyes sparkling, and put her hand on his leg. She seemed to understand him, what he was thinking when he looked at her in a certain way. Probably their military training or something else. Love, maybe? He grunted. He remembered loving someone a lifetime ago.

A murky, brown river flowed gently to their left, halting the advance of a dense, green forest growing up to its edge. Neil slowed down even more, allowing the tanker truck to gain a hundred yards. He opened the window and inhaled deeply. He smelled the earthiness of the rich soil; a moldy waft of decomposing leaves blew in from the forest. The river started to recede into the distance below as they climbed higher.
 

They crawled past an ornate sign on the side of the road that said, “Welcome to Dabbort Creek, population 685, Home of the Ocelot.” They followed the tanker truck into town.

The village was nestled on the side of a wooded hill. The neat blacktop meandered past a police station to their left. They saw a diner and a bar farther up the road to their right. Various signs in front of shops and stores vied for their attention.

Neil glanced at Alexa. “Alex, what’s an ocelot?”
 

Alexa shrugged. “Let’s ask.” She pointed toward the bar, and Neil nosed into a parking space in front.

Alexa and Neil entered the dimly lit barroom and stood still for a couple of seconds to allow their eyes to adjust to the light. The sound of Mac Wiseman skinning a cat emanated from a vintage jukebox in the corner. Four elderly men were playing cards in a corner booth, talking softly under their breaths as they flipped the cards on the table. They stopped their game to eyeball the newcomers.
 

A cowboy sat on a stool at the bar, his Stetson pulled low over his brow. Ice rattled as a burly barman filled a bucket from the ice machine.

The barman shifted his attention to them as they sauntered to the counter. He stooped forward and planted his hands flat down on the counter. The man wore a denim jacket with the sleeves torn off at the shoulders, and his triceps bulged impressively.

“What can I do you for?” he asked with a gravelly voice. His eyes lingered on Alexa's chest for a moment before he dragged them away and looked up at Neil. The old-timers continued with their game in a hushed tone. Neil ordered two Sols and sat down at the bar. The barman wiped two glasses dry, placed them in front of Neil, poured the beers, and pushed a bowl of peanuts toward them.
 

“What’s an ocelot?” Neil asked him.

The question drew a smile from the barman. One of the card players sniggered.
 

The barman scratched a bearded chin. “It used to be some wild cat folks would find in these parts. But they were wiped out years ago.” He twirled the side of his long, handlebar mustache between a thumb and forefinger. “They used to be a tourist attraction.”

Neil tossed a handful of peanuts in his mouth, chewed noisily, and chased them with a chug of beer.
 

Alexa turned around and examined the room, noticing a couple of pool tables at the far end. “You see two French guys come in here a couple of days ago?” Alexa asked the barman.
 

The hushed conversation stopped.

The barman shrugged. “Nope.”

Alexa considered his answer with her head cocked to the side. “You sure?”

“Yep,” the barman answered and refilled the cowboy’s glass with bourbon. The man grunted a thanks.