Absolution, p.8
Absolution, page 8
part #3 of Joe Logan Series
They had another glass of bourbon as they discussed the man that they both hoped would be their savior.
“Do you think he’ll come back?” Andy said. “He’s been gone a long time.”
“He’s just being ultra careful, Sis. Slater may not be able to find out who you are, or link you to me even if he does. Logan is just covering all the bases.”
“I saw the way you looked at him when we rolled up at your place, Fran. Are you going to make a play for him?”
Fran grinned. “He’s a good-looking man, but to be footloose and fancy free at his age means that he isn’t the type to be domesticated. He’s as feral as a mountain lion.”
“And that would stop you having a fling with him?”
“No, I don’t suppose it would, if he was interested.”
Logan heard a faint scraping sound from directly behind him.
Martin stopped dead. The sole of his shoe had caught a piece of old roof tile, and the noise it made seemed magnified in the night air. He held his breath and listened, but could only hear the soft murmur of the breeze through the branches of a few stunted trees. He tightened his grip on the gun, entered the shadow-stained confines of the ruined building and gasped in both pain and surprise as a solid blow to his lower face caused him to drop to his knees on the rubble-strewn ground.
Logan’s reactions were still lightning fast. He had heard the sound and instantly whipped his head round to see the silhouette of an extremely tall figure framed in what remained of the doorway. He could have shot the man at what was almost pointblank range, but didn’t want to pinpoint his location to the other guy with the MP5.
Powering up from the crouched position he had adopted, Logan propelled himself forwards, swinging the silenced handgun up at a forty-five degree angle, for it to connect with the underside of the man’s jaw. He heard the crack as the mandible fractured. His aim had been a little awry. He had intended to crush his attacker’s larynx, or maybe shatter the hyoid bone.
As the giant dropped to the ground, Logan hit him again across the temple, and as he keeled over onto his side, stamped on his right wrist as he bent down to retrieve the handgun from now limp fingers.
He smiled. It was the same model Glock. He checked the mag; twelve rounds. Going down on one knee he rifled through the guy’s pockets, found a full spare mag, a cell phone and a wallet. Opening the wallet and moving out of shadow to facilitate inspecting its contents, he removed a driver’s license and glanced from the photo on it to the now groaning guy on the floor. A match; he was in the company of one Martin Keno, the biggest Native American Indian he had ever laid eyes on.
Swapping the almost depleted mag in his own gun for the full one, Logan then turned Keno over onto his stomach and pulled his coat part way down to trap his arms in a simple straitjacket style of restraint.
Martin came round within sixty seconds. His head and jaw pulsated with pain, and he couldn’t move his arms.
Logan dropped down to place one knee in the center of Martin’s back, and pushed the muzzle of the Glock up against the side of his neck.
“Your name is Martin Keno,” Logan said. “And if you don’t do exactly as I tell you to, you won’t get to see another sunrise.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Martin said, attempting to ignore the pain. He remembered reading of how Mohammad Ali had carried on fighting after Ken Norton had broken his jaw.
“I’m going to fire a couple of rounds,” Logan said. “And then I want you to call your buddy. Tell him that’s it’s over, and that you nailed me.”
“And then you kill him when he comes over here, right?”
“I’ll give him the chance to drop his weapon. If he does, then you two may live to tell Slater what happened out here tonight.”
Logan aimed the Glock up at the sky and pulled the trigger twice.
Martin waited for the sound of the gunshots to fade and then shouted, “Al, over here. It’s over. Logan is history.”
Al breathed a sigh of relief. He had checked out the small SUV parked at the side of the derelict diner, and was up against the side wall of the building, edging along towards a window frame that was partially boarded up. He was sure that Logan would have taken refuge inside, but wasn’t going to risk being shot at from the pitch-black interior. And now he wouldn’t have to worry. Martin had taken Logan out.
Jogging up the track that led to the remains of a much smaller building, Al got to within thirty feet of it when the top half of a figure rose up above the remnants of a brick wall, pointing a gun at him.
“Dump the weapon, now,” Logan said.
Al froze and thought about it. If he discarded the MP5, Logan would in all probability shoot him. He decided that he had the advantage. A handgun wasn’t very accurate over a distance like this. He made a decision, dropped to the ground and sprayed the front of the ruined structure.
Logan felt a lance of heat as a slug from the submachine gun caught the side of his left biceps. He ducked down, waited for a pause after the initial chatter of gunfire, and then rose up holding the Glock two-handed, saw his target and placed three bullets in the shooter.
Al jerked back as the first slug hit him in the shoulder; cried out as a second passed through his left cheek to blow away a large portion of gum and several teeth. He didn’t feel the third shot. It entered his right eye and cut a hot path through his brain, to bring an almost instantaneous end to his life.
Martin rolled over, reared up on to his knees and was almost on his feet before Logan turned, gave him a tight-lipped smile and shot him in the left foot.
Gritting his teeth, Martin took his weight on his right leg and somehow absorbed the pain and stared directly into Logan’s eyes as he let the jacket that had pinned his arms drop to the ground. He was positive that the ex-cop was about to kill him, but was too proud a man to show fear or ask for mercy. Death was not an enemy, just a state of eternal peace. Living was the heartless bitch that caused all the fucking problems.
Logan assessed the giant standing in front of him, whom he judged to be at least six feet eight, with broad shoulders and not an ounce of spare body fat. At almost six-four it wasn’t often that Logan had to look up to other men.
Martin bent forward, as if to inspect the damage to his foot, and simultaneously lunged forward, driving the top of his head into Logan’s chest and knocking him backwards into the disintegrating brick wall.
Even as Logan attempted to bring the gun up, Martin stepped in and grasped his wrist, to twist it in a viselike grip, rotating it backwards until the weapon slipped from Logan’s hand.
The blow from Martin’s fist connected high up on Logan’s ribs and drove all the air from his lungs; such was the power of the punch. He went down onto one knee, looked up and saw the giant begin to swing his arm, intent on striking Logan in the head with enough force to at least daze him, and probably knock him unconscious.
Logan jerked his head sideways, almost avoiding the fist, which caught him a glancing blow above his right ear. He was on all fours and knew that had he not shot Keno in the foot, then he would have suffered a kick to the head.
Martin grinned. He had bested Logan. One well-placed blow and the man would be out for the count, to wake up bound and at gunpoint, to be forced into the back of the SUV and driven to Ajo. It went without saying that Zack would take great delight in dealing with Logan personally.
Logan reached out, snatched a brick from the rubble and swung it full force into Martin’s shin. And as the giant Indian was consumed with the sudden shock and pain and once more fell to his knees, Logan lashed out again, bringing the brick up and sideways to connect with his enemy’s skull.
Martin fought the gray tide that engulfed his brain, but could not overcome the trauma and collapsed over Logan’s thighs.
Logan pushed the huge and unconscious man off him, picked up the gun and climbed to his feet. Looking down the slope to the diner, he verified that the Mazda was out of sight. Keno had approached from the rear of the outbuilding, so had not seen the vehicle. He quickly removed the insensate Indian’s clothes, pulled the belt free from the loops of the pants and used it to bind his wrists behind his back. He then jogged down to where the body of the other man lay, checked that he was dead and moved on to the SUV and took a can of gas from the trunk. On the way back he picked up the MP5, a spare mag that was in the dead man’s coat pocket, and his belt.
It was almost ten minutes later when Martin surfaced from unawareness into a world of darkness and pain. He was sitting on cold ground, couldn’t move his hands or feet, and had also been blindfolded. The slightly chill breeze against his skin told him that he was naked. And he could smell gas. A rare state of panic invaded his usually composed demeanor. Logan had no reason to let him live, and was obviously going to set him on fire.
“You all set to go to the Happy Hunting Grounds, Keno?” Logan said.
“I can think of better places to go,” Martin replied, wincing at the combined pain from his jaw, head and foot. “You plan on burning me to death, Logan?”
Logan said nothing, just lifted the open can and poured gas over Martin. He then flipped back the lid of a Zippo – which he had found in a pocket of the guy’s pants – and spun the wheel to light it.
Martin scrabbled backwards, but almost immediately came up against a rough brick wall.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t light you up,” Logan said.
Martin couldn’t think of a single thing to say in his defense. He just tensed every muscle in his body and waited for the fire to engulf him.
Logan closed the lighter, extinguishing the flame. “Here’s the state of play,” he said to Martin. “Slater sent four of you to deal with me. Now I have another handgun and an MP5, and you’re the only one left alive, and that’s because I don’t make a habit of killing unarmed men.
“I have your phone and wallet, and know where to find you if I need to. I’m going to leave you here and make a call to your boss. When he has you picked up, tell him what went down, and that his bad intentions are going to bring him nothing but pain and suffering. The two women are a thousand miles away from Arizona now. All you have to worry about is me. And you need to know that when I turn up in Ajo it will be to finish what Slater started.”
“You could just walk away, Logan,” Martin said. “Why start a war with us?”
“I didn’t start it, Slater did. He wants me and the women dead, so I aim to pick my time and deal with him and anyone else that gets in the way. Be advised that if you come up against me again, I will kill you without hesitation, Keno.”
Martin waited for Logan to continue, but Logan said nothing more, just turned around and walked away.
Martin didn’t know if he was still there or not. “Logan,” he said, but there was no answer. After a couple of minutes he started to twist his wrists to work loose whatever was binding them together, but there was no give. “Fuck!” he shouted, and then groaned at the pain his outcry generated in his now swollen, throbbing face.
Logan drove for ten minutes before parking off-road to make a call on Keno’s cell. He scrolled the contacts and speed-dialed Zack Slater’s number.
“Yeah, Martin. All taken care of?”
“Not yet,” Logan said. “Keno and the other three amateurs made a mistake coming out to the house in Pisinimo, and a bigger one when they burned it down. Three of them died tonight, Slater. I let Keno live. You’ll find him at a shut down diner about four miles south of the house. He’ll need medical attention.”
“You’re just one man, Logan. You’ll pay for sticking your nose into my business.”
“No, Slater, you’re the one that’s going to pay. I may leave it a week or a month, and when you least expect it I’ll be there in front of you, to settle the score for all the misery and death you’re responsible for.”
“You’re a fuckin’ maniac, Logan. You won’t get anywhere near Ajo without being seen. I have eyes everywhere.”
Logan said nothing. He ended the call, found the stub of a pencil and a small canary-yellow Post-it pad in the glove box of the Mazda, and used the cell again to jot down names and numbers from the contact list in Keno’s phone, then switched it off, opened the door, dropped it onto the hard-packed earth and put his left leg out and ground it to pieces under the heel of his boot.
Setting off back towards the Coronado National Forest, he was soon driving along the narrow track that led to the cabin.
It had been a satisfying sortie. He had taken out the opposition, and let Slater know that he was up against a man that would use deadly force as a form of defense.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The bottle of bourbon was depleted by almost two thirds. All they could do was wait for Logan and hope that he was okay.
Andy felt the effects of the liquor numbing her brain. “I’ve lost everything,” she said to Fran. “Because of Sam I won’t ever be able to go back home or to my job. I’ll have to start over.”
“So will I,” Fran said. “Unless Logan deals with Slater. But I still don’t get why a total stranger would put his own life at risk because he found a dead body in the desert.”
“Me neither, Sis. Maybe that’s what turns his wheels; roaming around the country putting wrongs to right.”
“That would be a weird way to live your life,” Fran said before drinking the last drop in her glass. “But then again, it takes all types.”
“I don’t think he goes out of his way to find trouble,” Andy said. “But he doesn’t shy away from it either.”
“Maybe that’s what I find attractive about him. He’s the kind of guy that you only find in books and movies.”
“So you do have the hots for him?”
Fran grinned, and then they both froze at the sound of engine noise getting louder as it approached the cabin.
Fran dashed through to the bedroom, to return in seconds with the shotgun held ready to fire, pointing it at the door as she held her index finger flat against the trigger guard.
Andy picked up the .22 pistol from the maple-topped coffee table next to her before turning the wheel on the side of the oil lamp to lower the wick and extinguish it.
“It’s me,” Logan said as he approached the door.
Fran had been unconsciously holding her breath. At the sound of Logan’s voice she exhaled noisily and lowered the shotgun. Her stomach was flipping and her hands were trembling, and damp with perspiration.
Andy rushed to the door, unlocked and opened it, to frown as she saw the blood on the arm of Logan’s windbreaker.
“It’s just a scratch,” Logan said as he walked into the cabin and headed over to where the empty coffeepot stood on a unit top.
“I’ll make a fresh pot,” Andy said.
“Take your coat and shirt off,” Fran said. “I want to check out that scratch.”
Logan sighed and did as she bid. Experience decreed that to give way to a woman’s will usually saved a lot of time and talking.
“Jesus! You’ve been shot,” Fran said as she surveyed the deep, raw furrow in Logan’s arm. “What happened?”
“Four of Slater’s goons showed up at your place,” Logan said. “They searched it and then torched it.”
Fran felt sick. The little clapboard house had been much more than a place to live in, it had been a home that she had loved, set in a bucolic location she had found a palliative to people and working at the bar. She had enjoyed the isolation and peace that she could escape to.
“Looks like we’re both homeless now,” Andy said.
“We’ve got this place,” Fran said. “What more do we need?”
Andy sighed, “Our lives back.”
Fran walked over to the kitchen area and found an old brown glass bottle of hydrogen peroxide and some yellowing bandage in one of the wall units. She spent the next ten minutes cleaning the wound to Logan’s arm and binding it with the bandage. She was surprised that he hardly winced as she treated the gash, but having noticed the dimpled scar on his right shoulder, it was obvious that he had been shot before, more seriously. It was also obvious that he was in terrific condition. His shoulders were as wide as a door, and his muscle tone belied his age.
“Do you make a habit of getting shot?” Fran asked him.
“No, I do my best to avoid it.”
“So what exactly happened?” Andy said.
“They came to find us, and kill us,” Logan said. “Three of them are dead. I let one live to tell Slater what had happened.”
“Do you think he’ll back off, now?”
Logan shook his head as he stood up and pulled his bloody, bullet-holed shirt back on. “No, Andy. He doesn’t appear to have the sense to. This won’t be over until he’s taken out of the equation.”
“Meaning that you plan on killing him?” Fran said.
The coffeepot was bubbling on the propane stove. Logan walked over to it, switched off the gas and then poured a cup of the coffee. “I don’t make too many plans, but eliminating him may be the only way to resolve this,” he said, looking from Fran to Andy.
“I don’t understand you,” Fran said. “You appear out of nowhere and get involved. Why?”
“God knows,” Logan said. “Some defect in my genes, I guess. I’ve spent my entire adult life running into trouble, and I suppose it’s got me used to dealing with the type of people that I consider to be the enemy.”
“What do you do when you’re not solving crimes and protecting strangers from assholes?” Fran said.
Logan smiled. “Not a lot. I travel, eat, sleep, read pulp fiction, and just let each day unroll out in front of me like a carpet.”
“And that’s enough?” Andy said.
“More than enough. I enjoy the freedom.”
“But don’t you have any plans for the future?”
“No. Everyone’s future is an unknown quantity. A lot of people’s lives seem to be full of stress, a certain amount of unhappiness, and a daily grind to make ends meet as they work, raise a family and worry about how to get through the next month. Nobody seems to realize that even if you live to be say, eighty, you’ll only have existed for nine hundred and sixty months, and slept for about a third of them. Life’s too short to get bogged down with commitment, to my way of thinking.”
