Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(81)

“My shotgun,” Joe said.

From the dark of the back of the van, Nate said, “That’s good. He can’t hit anything with his pistol, anyway.”

Joe rolled his eyes and the driver laughed. It was good to hear Nate’s voice.

“Excuse me,” the passenger said as he opened his door. “This is as far as I go.”

Joe stepped back so the ginger-haired man could exit the vehicle.

“Take care now, Randy,” the driver called out after him. “Go home. Get on the straight and narrow. Get a job. Maybe I’ll see you around in Denver.”

“Maybe,” Randy said. He passed by Joe with a furtive glance on his way into the terminal.

The driver patted the passenger seat, indicating for Joe to get in.

Joe did. He grimaced when he saw Nate sitting behind the seats with his back propped against the interior wall.

“How are you doing?” he asked him.

“Oh, just dandy. You?”

“Busy. We took down some Nazis.”

“Damn,” Geronimo said.

Nate grinned his cruel smile. “I wish I could have been there.”

“Ah, we didn’t need you,” Joe lied.



* * *



—

As they crossed the Columbia River into Portland on the six-lane Interstate Bridge, Joe looked out his window. There was more water in view than existed in the whole of Twelve Sleep County, and possibly in the state of Wyoming. The buildings of downtown Portland glistened across the river to his left.

Geronimo briefed him as they drove.

“. . . So we’ve got to find him tonight and get those birds back. By tomorrow they’ll be in a jet on the way to the Middle East.”

“Are we sure he’s here?” Joe asked.

Geronimo brandished Tristan’s phone. “We think so. We hope so. We’re kind of running on fumes and wishes at this point.”

“He’s here,” Nate stated from the back. His tone held no doubt. Joe believed him. Nate had that ability. His friend knew when bears, wolves, or mountain lions were around. It was uncanny. Axel Soledad fit into that category of predatory beast.

“He’s got a guy with him,” Geronimo said. “Randy told us the guy is named the Blade and he served with Axel in Special Forces. Axel picked him up outside a prison and they loaded a bunch of guns into their van. I think I shot the motherfucker back in Seattle, but I don’t know how badly he’s hurt.”

Joe nodded. “Have you considered calling the police? Alerting them about Axel’s transit van?”

Geronimo chuckled. “What do you think?”

“You’re just like Nate,” Joe said.

“I take that as a compliment.”

Joe tried to track where they were headed, but most of the standard green highway signs were defaced by graffiti. So were the sides of the buildings and fences that flanked the highway. As they descended into the city, he noted tents and crude shelters wherever there was bare ground.

Geronimo took the I-405 South exit onto Couch Street and Burnside. He took a left on Burnside.

Joe couldn’t help but marvel at what he saw. Every bank and most businesses were boarded up with plywood. Trash covered the sidewalks and gathered in the corners of buildings. Homeless people slept on the sidewalks and only some of them had sleeping bags.

“Where are we going?” he asked Geronimo.

“North Park Blocks.”



* * *



—

Axel drove two circuits around the Benson Hotel on Broadway until he found what he was looking for. Behind the boarded-up hotel was a small square bordered by Burnside, Ankeny, and Southwest Eighth Avenue. The square was open except for two old squat structures set inside it. There was so much graffiti on the walls of the buildings that it was hard to tell they were made of red brick.

A seven-foot chain-link fence had been erected around the square, but it had been mostly ripped down. Piles of trash littered the gravel inside.

Axel backed into the square over the top of the downed fence so the windshield of the van afforded a panoramic view of North Park across Burnside Street. He backed in slowly, aware of the possibility that he might roll over a sleeping homeless man. But he didn’t feel the thump of a body beneath his tires.

When the transit van was wedged in the shadows between the two brick buildings, he turned the motor off and killed the lights.

People were starting to gather in the park, just like he’d hoped. There were fewer than thirty of them at the moment, but he could tell by their profiles under the streetlights that they were geared up in black bloc and ready to rumble. Most had backpacks and carried skateboards. They were masked or their faces were hidden by motorcycle helmets.

He said to the Blade, “Looks like there’s just a few antifa assholes out at this point, but at least they aren’t like those Seattle pussies. Now all we have to do is wait for BLM and the cops to show up.”

The Blade responded with a moan. He was bent over double in the passenger seat with his arms wrapped tightly around his belly. Axel could smell blood and viscera. It had been like that all the way from Seattle.

“Hang in there,” Axel said. “I’m going to need your help unloading the cache.”

“I need a hospital, man. I’m dying.”