Rule Number Four (eBook)

Prologue

Friday, July 17

He banked hard into the wind, mindful of the proximity of the wingtips to the canyon walls. They hadn’t invented the radar that could pick him up down here, but one miscalculation and the stone cliffs would do what the Feds couldn’t. No instruments necessary; just follow the winding course of the river fifty feet below. He’d flown the route dozens of times and there weren’t many who could do it once. That’s why they paid him. And they paid him well.

The rusty streak on the cliff to his right was the two-mile marker. Two miles to a break in the long stretch of limestone, a hard right through the gap and then he was over open desert and half an hour from landing. The easy part of the run. Stay low over the sand and his only danger was exposure in the open territory. Not really a concern. Nothing much out here but rattlesnakes, scorpions and illegals and they didn’t care what he was flying, or even that he was flying. He could almost taste the cold beer that awaited. But first a little fun.

He hit the gap in a steep dive, nearly skimming the surface of the water before roaring out of the canyon, twenty feet above the floor. Sand flew up in his wake and he imagined fish swimming hard to escape the winged monster above. Then he was free of the rock with flat country ahead and …

“Shit! Shit, shit, SHIT!” He looked back quickly but the moment was gone—the two men he’d nearly decapitated were too far back to be seen. A beige pickup truck sat near the canyon mouth, but he guessed the men were lying flat on the ground, eyes closed, praying to whoever or whatever they prayed to. No way to know if they were Border Patrol, park rangers or just a couple of local yahoos out for a ride in the desert. Not wetbacks for sure—they were mostly dirt-poor campesinos and didn’t drive pickups—and probably not rangers this far away from any part of the populated areas of the park. That left smugglers, local yahoos or Border Patrol. The first two possibilities didn’t concern him, but the Border Patrol did. Too late to worry about that now. He’d been seen but there was no way they could identify him or know where he was going. The tiny airstrip where he would land was on no map and roads didn’t go there. He’d be on the ground, off-loaded and on his way home before those guys would have a chance to tell anyone about their near-death experience. Still, he wished the twelve hundred pounds of aromatic herb in the cargo bay behind him was gone and he could increase his speed. But today was payday and he wasn’t about to dump a load, now or ever.

He had to gain altitude now, preparing to land. At three miles out he had a visual on the airstrip, a scar on the desert floor about a third of a mile long. At a mile he dropped the flaps halfway on the little Cherokee and backed his speed down to eighty knots. Ahead he could see the orange wind sock fluttering out to the east, the only splash of color visible for miles. Crosswind. He crabbed the Cherokee against the hot wind now as it did its best to push him off course. Slowing to seventy knots he brought up the nose and killed the throttle, stalling the single engine. First the left then the right gear kissed the runway, followed finally by the plane’s nose. A smile crossed his face. He’d done it a thousand times and he still loved hitting the landing perfectly. Offering a quick prayer to the flying gods for the lack of dust clouds that could make these landings even trickier, he taxied up to the only building for miles, a Frankenstein Quonset hut hanger built of steel siding cannibalized from other buildings and painted a drab color that matched the surrounding sand. Almost time for that beer. Almost time to get paid.

Carl undid the belt strapping him in and opened the pilot-side window. The blast of hot air that invaded the cabin felt like a punch. Had to be 100 plus outside. No air-conditioning in his car either and he didn’t much relish the long drive ahead. A movement to his right made him turn to the hangar where three men were emerging from the people-door left of the large door that would allow the plane entry. He recognized Silent Sam, had known him for a year or so. Sam was a huge Samoan, hence the “Sam” portion of the nickname, who rarely spoke, causing the alliterative addition “Silent.” Carl had no idea what Sam’s given name was. The other two men he didn’t know. Loaders came and went, pocketed a decent payday and headed for the watering holes in small West Texas towns until the cash ran out, when they’d reappear like cactus flowers after a spring rain.

The skinny one was headed for the cockpit; the tall one with the freakish physique lingered back with Sam, putting some major stress on the hard-packed sand. Carl estimated 600 pounds of humanity between them with Sam holding a sizable edge in mass but the other guy in muscle. The one now standing outside the cockpit contributed maybe only 130 pounds to the threesome, but he made up for it in attitude.

“Let’s go, man! Chop, chop! Open her up. We got work to do here.”

Carl took a long look, then leaned back in his seat and yawned enormously. The new guy was about to get a lesson in smuggler etiquette and hierarchy. Pilots at the top, loaders at the bottom. Loaders didn’t tell pilots what to do. The yawn failed to achieve the desired result. Instead the skinny guy raised his voice.

“Not joking, man; get out and open up. I’m not getting caught out here because some air jockey took his sweet time and made us take longer to get this load out. Move!”

“Air jockey?” Carl didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He yawned a second time, more obviously fake than the first one, then slowly opened the door. He stepped down to the ground, turning to his left to afford the skinny guy a good look at the Colt Model 1911 strapped to his hip, a tool he’d picked up in ‘Nam and one that never left his side on the job.

Carl addressed the skinny guy. “Sorry. I haven’t met you, have I? You got a name?”

“Yeah, it’s Stevie. Now open the damn cargo door.”

“Ya know, Stevie, I’m gonna explain something to you. I don’t work for you. I don’t even know you and I sure as hell don’t take orders from you.”

Looking to Sam, Carl continued. “Sam! I do know you. Do I work for you, Sam?”

In what amounted to a soliloquy for the big Samoan, Sam replied, “No, man, you don’t work for me.”

“No, I don’t, Sam, you’re right.”

Then Carl turned to the man mountain, who was still hanging back, head down, hoping that, despite his seventy-seven inches and 260 pounds of gym-built muscle, he somehow couldn’t be seen, wouldn’t be drawn into any sort of confrontation. “You! Musclehead! Do I work for you? Take orders from you? You the guy who pays me?”

Musclehead looked up briefly. “Look, I’ve never seen you before. You don’t work for me. I just want to do my job and go get a drink. I don’t need any trouble.” He dug a hole in the sand with his eyes and crawled inside. Lots of muscle, no confidence. Carl had seen it before. Musclehead was not going to be a problem.

Carl turned back to Stevie. “Well, Stevie, we’ve determined I don’t work for you or for Sam or for Musclehead. So I’ll open up on my schedule, not yours, because I only work for one guy and that’s … ”

“Marty!” A cheerful voice sounded from behind Carl. Carl knew that voice and didn’t bother to turn. Another guy who was not a threat, because Carl did work for him.

The voice continued. “Stevie, Carl can be a bit testy after a flight. Let’s do our best not to agitate him, OK? I can find guys to unload but I can’t find guys who can fly like Carl because, well, nobody can fly like Carl.”

Carl held Stevie’s gaze for a long moment. When Stevie broke eye contact Carl turned and said, “Hey, Marty, good to be home. Let me open up for Stevie and the Girth here and then we can talk business.”

The Quonset hut was painted desert beige, like everything else at the small airstrip. The motif was continued on the inside since Marty had had paint left over after finishing the outside and saw no need for it to go to waste. The overall result was a numbing sameness that always gave Carl the sense that he had moved into a separate reality where nothing existed but Marty, him and business. And in a way he was right. Marty was Carl’s oldest—some would say only—friend, but the friendship was based on business. It had been from the start when Marty was running a black-market operation in ‘Nam and brought Carl aboard after meeting him during a long, drunken night in a Saigon bar.

He followed Marty through the beige hangar to the back of the building where there was a small beige office, full of beige furniture. Carl guessed Marty had gone monochromatic with the furniture so it couldn’t be spotted from the air if he ever chose to move outside and work under the blazing desert sun. No air conditioner here either, but Carl was certain that there would be if Marty could find one in beige. The office had to be about 120 with nothing but a small fan listlessly blowing the stifling air around the room until it returned, no cooler for the experience, to sit in Carl’s face until the fan replaced it with more of the same. He took a folding chair and set it in front of the small beige desk. Marty moved to the far side and sat in the only padded chair in the room, one of the perks of being the boss.

Marty reached under the desk and...