Redzone (10 page)

The path rose and fell every now and then, meandered through stands of whitebark pine, and clung to sheer cliffs. That was when Bruce had the opportunity to look down into Heartbreak Valley. It had been given the name back during the California gold rush, when men came for precious metals, but failed to find any. What they didn't realize was that the
real
bonanza was an enormous deposit of rare earth metals—including lanthanides and quantities of scandium.

It wasn't their fault of course since products like super magnets, fluorescent lightbulbs, and the components required for missile-guidance systems had yet to be invented. And now, as Bruce looked out over the vast open-pit mine that his father operated, he knew that most of what the family took out of the ground would be sold to companies in Pacifica.

That was unfortunate since the Republic of Texas and Pacifica had been at each other's throats in the past and might be again someday. But most of the people who ran the Republic were suspicious of technology and believed that the plague had been sent by God to punish an increasingly secular society. So to their way of thinking rare earth metals were part of the problem rather than part of the solution.

Would that change as the Aztecs continued to push up from the south? And missiles continued to fall in Texas and Arizona? Boss Heevy thought so . . . But in the meantime, he was happy to sell his product to the people who had the money, regardless of which country they were in.

Both the valley and the mine disappeared from sight as the trail angled to the right and slipped behind an outcropping of lichen-covered rock. A short time later, James led his brothers out onto a spur, where they stopped next to a wind-twisted pine. “This is the spot,” he said. “I spent three hours here two days ago. Bruce, I'd like you to serve as my spotter. Hoss, you will be in charge of security. And that's an important job! How would I explain it to the old man if some yahoo was to sneak up and shoot Bruce in the ass?”

Hoss wasn't amused, and Bruce knew why. The truth was that Hoss wasn't willing to act as the shooter
or
the spotter, because in his words, “It ain't right.” Was that his mother talking? Quite possibly—since she was a Bible thumper. Of course that didn't keep her from living in luxury even as she offered up all sorts of holier-than-thou bullshit.

James dismounted as Hoss pulled the Clydesdale around and turned back. “Okay,” James said, as his boots hit the ground. “We'll leave the horses here and proceed on foot.”

After tying the animals to low-hanging branches, the brothers took their long guns and made their way onto the rocky spur. It narrowed quickly, and since there was no cover to speak of, it was necessary to crawl. “Take your hat off,” James ordered, as they arrived at the edge of the precipice. Bruce did as he was told and cursed himself for failing to think of it.

As the brothers looked down into the valley they could see the hundreds of shacks that lined both slopes. Many had tiny, carefully terraced gardens, chicken coops, and goat pens. A few were flanked by old jalopies. These were the homes that the workers lived in. Most of whom were barely literate and, lacking the skills required to do something else, had no choice but to perform manual labor.

Still, ignorant or not, there were natural leaders among the people of Shack Town. Men and women who, because of their personal charisma, could urge others to unionize. The solution was a process that the Boss referred to as “culling the herd.” Because by removing the so-called “bad breeders” from the workforce, the family could prevent potential leaders from causing harm. And stop the spread of their DNA.

That was where Bruce differed from Hoss. He didn't enjoy culling the herd, but he understood the necessity and considered it a duty that had to be fulfilled. It was something that James and he could agree on. Bruce had a spotting scope in addition to his rifle. He brought the telescope-like
device to bear on the shacks that were almost directly below them. “What am I looking for?”

James was looking through the Bushnell by then. “The target's name is Luigi Bravo. He's been agitating for better medical care. See the shack off to the left? The one with the red blanket hanging out to dry? That's where he lives.”

Bruce panned over to the dwelling with the red blanket and made a small adjustment to the focus. There was a small yard behind the hovel. Half of it was taken up with piles of firewood, some rabbit pens, and a pile of rusty auto parts. But there was an open area in the middle—and that's where the little boy was playing. He had a brightly colored toy and was pushing it around. “I see a kid,” Bruce said. “Right in the middle of the backyard.”

“That's Luigi's son,” James replied. “It's Sunday, so Luigi will be home. I will shoot the boy in the leg. He'll scream. That will bring dad out into the open. I'll put him down. If the wife comes running out of the house so much the better. Do you have any questions?”

Bruce's mouth was dry. James made it sound so easy, so routine, but the thought of shooting the little boy made Bruce feel queasy.
But you don't have to shoot him,
Bruce reminded himself.
James will take care of that.
“No,” Bruce said. “I don't have any questions.”

“Good. Check the range . . . What have you got?”

Bruce eyed the mil-dot reticule, did the math, and gave his answer. “About three hundred yards, give or take.” That was well within the Browning's reach. What would make the shot difficult was the extreme downward angle, the persistent down-valley breeze, and the fact that the little boy was moving around.

Of course James knew all of that . . . and was making calculations of his own. Bruce shouldn't have been surprised when the rifle fired, the bullet blew a divot out of the boy's thigh, and the child began to scream.

Just as James had predicted Luigi came charging out through the back door and rushed to assist his badly wounded son. One of his legs was shorter than the other, and that forced him to limp. Then the rifle cracked again, the sound echoed off the other side of the valley, and a piece of Luigi's skull flew off.

As the miner fell Mrs. Bravo came out shooting. She didn't know where the sniper was, and the shotgun was the wrong weapon for the job, but that didn't stop her. She stood over her husband's body and fired at the ridge above. “You have to give her credit,” James said, as he worked the bolt on his rifle. “The woman has balls.”

Bruce had to agree. And he knew something else as well. Mrs. Bravo
wanted
to die. James took care of that for her. The bullet hit her chest at a downward angle and exited through the small of her back. She fell across her husband.

“Okay,” James said matter-of-factly, “mission accomplished.”

“What about the boy?”

The child was still making a lot of noise, and the neighbors could be seen peeking out of their windows trying to see what was going on. “Right,” James said. “My bad.” And with that, his eye went back to the scope. The Browning thumped his shoulder and the crying stopped.

*   *   *

The city of Primm was anything but. The town was mainly devoted to the bars, honky-tonks, and strip joints that gave soldiers something to do. Though originally located in Nevada, and officially part of the Republic, the community had gradually evolved into
two
towns. West Primm was located in California, while East Primm remained in Nevada, and the border fell in between.

But before Lee could cross over into the red zone, she needed to purchase some transportation. Because it was one thing to ride buses and hitchhike in Pacifica, and another to
do so in the Republic of Texas, where a norm female was worth tens of thousands of dollars on the black market. So Lee asked Annie to stop shortly after they entered West Primm. “I'll hoof it from here,” she said. “Can I pay for your fuel?”

Annie laughed. “Hell, no . . . You don't have that kind of money—and I topped the tanks back in Halloran.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Now go out there and get happy. That's an order.”

Lee grinned. “Yes, ma'am.”

Lee took her pack, opened the door, and jumped to the ground. She waved as Big Bertha pulled away. And that was when she noticed the plate on the trailer. “1EYEONU.” That caused Lee to laugh out loud.

The next few hours were spent walking up and down both sides of the highway. There were a lot of nightspots, and a lot of soldiers wandering in and out of them, but plenty of car lots as well. And that's what Lee was interested in. So she talked to sleazy salesmen, took test drives, and tried to figure out which wreck to buy.

Eventually, with her decision made, it was time to have a couple of tacos in a mom-and-pop restaurant, before circling back to Larry's Used Car Emporium. Larry was right where she'd left him, boots on his desk, watching TV. He looked up as she entered the office. He smiled wolfishly. “You're back . . . Which one will it be?”

“That depends,” Lee countered. “It's down to a van at Jumpin' Jack's, or the old 4x4 I drove earlier. Pay me two hundred nu, and I'll take that piece of shit off your hands.”

Larry threw his head back and laughed. “You got some nerve, girl . . . But I like that in a woman. Let's go out and kick the tires. They're in good shape by the way . . . There's at least twenty thou on those puppies.”

Larry was dressed in a white shirt, bolo tie, and boot-cut jeans. A sizeable paunch hung down in front of a silver rodeo
belt, and a cloud of cologne followed the salesman wherever he went. But there was a crafty mind behind the turquoise blue eyes, and Lee had her hands full as negotiations got under way. Finally, in a show of exasperation, Larry threw up his hands. “Okay, okay . . . Twelve-hundred nu. And not a penny less.”

The starting price had been eighteen hundred, so Lee was satisfied. “It's a deal,” she said, as Larry's hand swallowed hers. “
If
you fill the tank, give me a spare, and throw in the high lift jack that's leaning on the wall over there.”

That produced a string of choice swearwords, but Lee got what she wanted, and took possession of the rig an hour later. The SUV was equipped with knobby tires, widely flared fenders, and lots of dents. The truck had been red once. But, after years in the desert sun, what remained of the paint was pink. And that was fine with Lee. She wanted a vehicle that would look like it belonged, wasn't worth stealing, and could handle some rough terrain should that become necessary. The Republic of Texas plates were a big plus as well. How had the truck come to be in Pacifica? If Larry knew, he wasn't telling.

The engine started with a roar, the truck rattled loudly, and a whiff of exhaust wafted up through a hole in the floor as Lee pulled out onto the street. Compared to her motorcycle, it was like steering a ship, and Lee was careful to keep both hands on the gigantic steering wheel as she drove east.

It was late afternoon by that time, but the stores were still open, and Lee had a list of things she needed to purchase. It didn't take long to find a surplus store where she could pick up some basic camping gear and a map of Nevada. “We don't sell very many of these,” the man behind the counter confided in her, as he blew some dust off the map. “Are you sure you know what you're doing?” He had thinning hair, a permanent suntan, and a fatherly manner.

Lee nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“If you say so,” the man said doubtfully. “That'll be 212 nu.”

Lee peeled the correct number of bills off her steadily
shrinking roll and stuffed the rest of the cash back into her pocket. After loading the purchases into the truck, Lee had dinner at a fast-food joint before setting off to find the campground that the man in the surplus store had told her about. A lot of the streetlights were burned out, making it difficult to see street signs. Lee took a wrong turn and drove north for a while before realizing her mistake.

The second attempt was successful. The facility was about half-full. And, judging from the elaborate manner in which some of the campers, trailers, and motor homes were set up—quite a few of the residents were full-time residents.

Lee had been watching for a tail all day and hadn't detected one. So odds were that the Bonebreaker was still back in LA. But just to make sure, she planned to sleep in the rig. A strategy that would lessen the chance that the killer would place a tracker on the vehicle.

The backseat had been removed at some point—which made the cargo area that much larger. Big enough for the newly purchased air mattress and sleeping bag with room left over. After a quick trip to the women's restrooms and showers, it was time to place the Smith & Wesson within easy reach, and lock herself in.

Someone's car alarm went off just after 2:00
A.M.
But, other than that, the night passed peacefully. Bright sunlight woke Lee up. Then came the uncomfortable process of getting out of the bag, making what felt like a twenty-mile hike to the shared bathrooms, and performing her morning ablutions side by side with a prostitute who had just returned home from work. She was tall and dressed in a tank top/miniskirt combo that left very little to the imagination. “Hey,” the woman said. “Did you have a good night?”

That was when Lee realized that the woman had mistaken her for a hooker. “I spent it sleeping,” Lee replied, as she dried her face.

“Good for you,” the woman replied, as she removed her wig. “It's hard to sleep during the day.”

Lee agreed and returned to the truck where she eyed herself in the rearview mirror. Did she look like a streetwalker? No, not in her opinion anyway. Her normal hairstyle had been left back in LA and replaced with a do that was so short she might have been in boot camp. That made her look different, boyish even, which was the plan. Her cheeks were hollow though . . . And there were circles under her eyes. All since watching the video. Was she doing the right thing? Should she go into the red zone? But, if she wanted to meet her mother, what choice was there?
None,
Lee told herself.
None at all.