Bull Mountain(36)

The man in red flannel waved.

“You know who you’re stealing from, son?” Bracken said.

“It looks like I’m stealing from the goddamn Village People.”

“Or the gimp,” Red Flannel said. Everyone looked at him. “You know, like Pulp Fiction. The butt-f*ckin’ scene with Bruce Willis.”

Everyone stopped looking at him.

Blue Flannel shook his head and exhaled heavily through the latex Bozo mask.

“Clowns,” Bracken said. “Good choice.”

Blue Flannel lifted his rifle from his knee and pressed the barrel against Bracken’s forehead. “One more time, old man. Don’t make me spend twenty minutes tearing that truck apart in the sun. This mask is hot as balls, and I’m sure everyone here is ready to get out of the heat and head their separate ways.”

Bracken spit more blood into the grass and wiped his mouth. “It ain’t in the truck,” he said. “It’s on the bike. The saddlebags.”

Blue Flannel whistled for the other two hijackers. They hopped out of the truck and Blue Flannel motioned them toward the wrecked bike. “Check the bike.”

“Roger that.” After a minute, without taking his eyes off Bracken and the downed bikers, he yelled over, “We good?”

“We good, sir.” The two men stripped the bike of the saddlebags and loaded them into their pickup. Blue Flannel stood up and heaved his rifle over his shoulder. “That’s some pretty sneaky shit, Grandpa. Driving a box truck as a decoy. That way, idiot hijackers are prone to take out the big target and you ride into the sunset with the prize in tow.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Too bad we ain’t idiot hijackers,” Red Flannel chimed in.

“That’s up for debate,” Bracken said.

Red Flannel was about to say something else when shots rang out from the pine trees and pinged off the truck, inches from his head. Red and Blue Flannel returned blind fire into the woods while Bracken and his boys flattened down into the grass and ate dirt.

“Bogies at your six,” one of the hijackers at the truck yelled, and fired into the trees. They all bolted toward their pickup, but Blue Flannel took two shots to the back and stumbled onto the asphalt. Purple stains bloomed out across the blue cotton and his rifle slid across the highway. His partner stopped briefly and emptied the rest of his magazine into the pine before jumping into the back of the already moving pickup truck and disappearing into the afternoon heat.

Romeo appeared through the tree line, twin Sig Sauers in hand.

“Holy shit, Bracken. Are you guys all right?” The young Latino biker looked down the deserted stretch of highway before tucking his guns away. He pulled a blade from his boot and cut away the zip ties.

“Where the f*ck you been?” Tilmon said, rubbing his wrists.

“I took a piss, man. By the time I caught up, I saw all this shit going on, so I pulled into the woods and hauled ass this way.”

“Long f*cking piss, bro,” Moe said.

“Goddamn. How about a thank-you? If I hadn’t stopped back there, there’s no telling what these putas would have done.”

“Enough,” Bracken said. “Romeo, call some friendlies and get us the hell out of here.”

“Already did it, boss.”

“Then somebody go find out who the dead redneck is.”





CHAPTER





13




CLAYTON BURROUGHS

2015





1.


Clayton thumped a pencil on his desk and stroked his calico beard for almost an hour before snapping the pencil in half between his fingers and using the eraser end to punch in the number for the GBI headquarters in Decatur. He stared blankly at the blinking line-indicator light and sat through three levels of secretaries and underlings before the right person was finally connected. Clayton heard fumbling on the line, then a deep, scotch-warmed voice:

“Finnegan.”

“Charles, it’s Clayton Burroughs.”

“Well, f*ck me running. How’s my favorite backwoods lawman?”

“Can’t complain. It wouldn’t do me no good if I did.”

“You got that shit right. What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“Well, Charles, I had me a federal come in my office this past Sunday wanting to talk about Halford.” Clayton heard Finnegan chuckle.

“Again?”

“Yeah, but this fella was different. He had some interesting things to say, and some of it sounded pretty solid. I was hoping to do a little digging on him to see if what he’s telling me is legitimate, but I’m hitting a wall. I can’t get nothing but name, rank, and serial number from them folks at the Atlanta office and I’m a little short on reliable contacts outside of the state police. Turns out you’re the best I got.”

“Well, Sheriff, if I’m the best you got, you’re in pretty sorry shape.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute, Charles.”

“What’s the agent’s name?”

“Holly. He’s with the ATF.”

“Simon Holly?” Charles said.

“Yeah, you know him?” Clayton leaned forward in his chair, took his hat off and laid it on the desk.