On the Bourbon Trail – chapter 12
They were packed tightly into the back of one of the white SUVs: Raylan, hands zip-tied behind his back, Yakuza member six-of-eight, and Wynn Duffy. Members seven and eight were in the front, faces stern. They were following another white SUV, in it Yakuza members one through five. Raylan's expression was pissy; Duffy's resigned; the Yakuza member's between them a clichéd zen, or perhaps he was just blissfully unaware, unable to understand the discussion between the two Americans, the southern midland dialect messing with any hope he might have of eavesdropping.
"You don't believe me," said Wynn Duffy.
"I never have before, so why would I start now?"
"Suit yourself."
"Teddy Newton." The name was spoken slowly, the two words distinct from one another, a question and a statement of fact, blended with just the right amount of impatience and demanding, all in true Raylan style.
"A fuzzy cookie with figs inside?"
"Why would you bullshit me here, now? It may not have occurred to you before, but let me break some news to you – the way the world works, it's not all bad guys on one side of the field and good guys on the other."
"You're living proof of that."
"My point is, I think this bunch would be just as happy killing you as me. You are not a member of their team."
"Raylan, I am well aware of that fact. And you can believe me when I say that."
"Well then, if you want my help getting out of this, you'd best start talking."
"Or what?" Wynn Duffy leaned forward and peered around the stony-faced and armed man sitting snuggly fitted between them. "Or what, Raylan? Are you going to arrest me? Please, do. I think I might actually appreciate a show of force by the Marshals Service today. Or perhaps you're going to hit me...with your hands tied. Maybe if you bump Yoshi here, he'll pass it on." Duffy's eyebrows added some adjectives to the sentence, disdain and disbelief, transmitting clearly the sure knowledge that any threat Raylan might utter was an idle one.
"Where's the bourbon, Duffy? Where's Teddy Newton? Where the hell are they taking us?"
"I don't know, I don't know, and…let me think a minute…I don't know."
"You must know something – Wynn Duffy, the man of opportunity in the land of opportunity. You have your finger in every pie, I'll bet even the bourbon pie."
"Marshal, you might want to consider cutting down on the drinking. Every second sentence that shoots unedited out of your mouth contains the word 'bourbon.' I don't think that's very healthy."
Raylan huffed loudly and sat back with as frustrated a slump as he could manage with his hands tucked and tied behind him. The frustration grew when the Yakuza gunman beside him let slip a bare smirk. The driver moved his head a fraction at that moment, watching something in his rearview mirror. The movement caught Raylan's attention and distracted him. He turned his head and wriggled sideways and looked out the back window. Two more white SUVs had joined the convoy. Raylan wondered which Lexington car rental company could come up with four identical white Suburbans, decided probably none, which meant these vehicles were likely purchased. That fact meant nothing by itself, but when you linked it to the rest of the goings-on, it suggested power and money. He was so focused on where that information might lead that he missed the first few words of the only information Duffy had yet to offer.
"…out of bed. So all I know is this – they took me for a pleasant drive into the country this morning, to a house at which my company installed an alarm system last year. Of course, I have the code. We went inside, they looked around, we left. I don't know, Marshal. Maybe they think I'm a real estate agent?"
"Whose house?"
"Craig Franklin."
"Craig Franklin." Raylan repeated the name, thought it sounded familiar, distantly, like it had come up in conversation somewhere recently, but which conversation? He twisted his brain into a knot trying to remember the context.
Rachel intercepted Art when he came back through the doors into the bullpen from the elevators, a piece of paper clutched tightly in his hand. She put out an arm, stopping her boss and separating him from an unaware Miljana who walked past, through the roadblock into the room.
"Chief."
"Rachel, you got a team together?"
"Yes, but…"
"But…?"
"Are you sure about the information?" She tilted her head in the direction of Tim Weaver, and spoke in a low voice. "Who's the freak?"
"He's CIA."
"God help us."
"I don't think he's paying attention today. Hadadezer, the freak, will have to do."
"Why's the CIA involved in this, on domestic soil? FBI maybe…"
"He's not here in any official capacity. He's a friend of Tim's."
Rachel drew her head back, shook it lightly. "Why am I not surprised?" She looked surprised by her statement, sounded surprised, too.
"Now that you mention it, I'm not either. I'm wondering how they missed it in the personal history screening when Tim applied to the Marshals Service."
Miljana, cut loose from her tether to Art, drifted to the middle of the room, still in awe of the personality she had just met. Judge Reardon was a legend to her, someone Tim told tall tales about while they ate dinner together. But now that she had had first-hand experience with the man, she thought maybe she might be less disbelieving of Tim's stories. The more she was drawn into his world, the more she considered law enforcement a missed opportunity. Not that she would want to wear a badge and carry a gun, it was more the idea of studying the psychology of the career choice, from the ground up, prison guards to judges to military. There was an academic publication in there somewhere, she was sure of it. She ran some thesis topics through her head, imagined pitching it to the faculty at UK, then changed her mind. Maybe it was best left alone. It might stir up some conflict in her partnership with Tim. She cocked her head to the side, considering, absent-mindedly copying Tim's body-language, and continued to drift toward Art's office. A phone ringing interrupted her thoughts and she snapped her head back straight and stopped walking and turned to say something to Art. Realizing she was alone, she drifted back to her assigned mooring.
"Now what?" she said, anchoring herself between Rachel and Art.
"Now, young lady, you go home, and take your CIA buddy with you."
"But…"
"But…?"
She read in his expression that there would be no satisfaction to come from her protests, so she relented, looked around the office for Tim Weaver.
"Where is he?"
"Who?"
"Stella." Rachel and Art looked at her blankly, so she qualified. "My CIA buddy."
All three did a circle, searching.
"Rachel?"
"I left him in the conference room," she said, pointing with a pen. "I swear he was there when you walked in."
"Shit." Miljana flapped her penguin arms. "He's got my car keys. That bastard."
Raylan didn't much like not being the center of attention. Even unwanted attention was preferable to being sidelined. After a long, uncomfortable, unexpected and unfruitful car ride, he appreciated being able to stretch his legs, but he didn't appreciate the seven extra gunmen in the two vehicles that joined up with them just outside of Lexington, and he didn't appreciate that the mysterious Craig Franklin, yanked from one of the other SUVs and identified by Duffy, wasn't anyone that he recognized. It irked him, annoyingly, especially when he and Duffy were corralled against one of the SUVs at gunpoint, while the remainder of the parade moved inside the beautiful log cabin that was their destination.
"Nice house," he thought, and said aloud, looking around the property for some clue to what the hell was going on. "Nice garage. Nice place."
Duffy was the only one who responded, a noncommittal humph.
"So you did the security system?"
Another humph.
"Craig Franklin, wasn't it you said? Why do I know that name?"
"He does a lot of charity work in Lexington. I'm trying to imagine how that might connect the two of you. I'm having trouble."
"Craig Franklin…Franklin." Raylan shook his head, wishing he could be part of the group that headed into the house with Craig Franklin. "And they were looking for something when they brought you here earlier?"
"It seemed that way, Raylan, yes."
"What do you think this place is worth?"
"Why?"
"It happens often enough that when I run across money, I run across trouble."
"A bit of a stereotype. My mother's cousin is quite wealthy, and entirely legitimate."
"I said 'often', not always."
"I'd say it's probably less than half the time. That's not often."
"In my experience it's more than half the time."
"I think your sample group is slightly biased by your particular career choice. Look at Hollywood, lots of money, and I suspect most of it made legitimately, if not exactly earned honestly."
"You got something against actors?"
"Only the overpaid ones. Mikey's cousin is a Broadway actor. I wouldn't call her overpaid. We went to see her in a show a few years ago. It was quite good."
"Why are we discussing Mikey's cousin?"
"I'm making a point."
"I'd like to make the point that we're in a bit of trouble here. Maybe you'd like to help come up with a way out of it as opposed to making idle conversation?"
Duffy looked around the yard, looked at Raylan, whispered, "There are nine armed, fit young men within shooting distance of us. What would you like me to do, Marshal, distract them? I'd have better luck distracting you with stories about Mikey's other cousins."
"How many cousins does he have?"
"Plenty."
Distraction presented itself then, but not in any helpful way. An abused and rusting Corolla pulled into the driveway and a shotgun, dress and red lipstick stepped out, aggressively, and started shouting. "I want to speak to Craig Franklin. Where's Craig Franklin?"
It was the dress that saved Kurt from a bullet from one of the Yakuza, the dress coupled with the baritone voice, unusual enough for a hesitation. There was a confused pause, and Raylan jumped into it.
"Kurt, put the gun down. You will die if you don't."
Raylan recognized the expression on Kurt's face, reminiscent of the look on the face of the lovely Rebecca White from high school when Raylan had led her into the woods for some playtime and they'd stood to gather their clothes after, and realized, belatedly, that they'd been rolling in a patch of poison ivy.
Kurt suddenly became aware of the patch of poison ivy he was standing in. "Shit," he said, with a fair amount of feeling, then he gingerly set down his shotgun, and clasped his hands together at the front of his dress.
Up the hill was a sniper, camouflaged in the leaves, muzzle break at the end of the barrel lined up like a vector on the Yakuza members guarding Raylan – and Wynn Duffy, though Tim wasn't sure he'd risk his life for that pair of eyebrows. He wondered what his buddy, Tim Weaver, was up to and if he'd had any luck with Miljana and Art. Raylan's arrival was a bit too quick to have been the product of any effort of Weaver's to get the Marshals Service involved, and that was worrisome. It meant that Raylan, as usual, was acting alone.
When the Corolla pulled up and Kurt stomped out, Tim cursed himself for not bringing the open bottle of Pappy back to his hide with him. He felt he could use a drink about now, empathized once again with Art. That was twice in twenty-four hours and Tim wasn't sure he appreciated it. It made him feel old.
He counted bad guys, counted good or goodish guys, decided on his targets in order, decided that even on a case of Rip It he couldn't take down the bad guys fast enough to successfully cover all the good guys. The bad guys were too spread out, too numerous, too well armed, still running patrols on his ridge, one on Raylan, one on Duffy, two more now frisking Kurt. There was a nervousness about them since Kurt had arrived. They seemed a bit more jumpy.
Shit.
If only Raylan's hands weren't tied – he would be an asset to rely on then. Strategically, Tim knew he should protect Raylan first, then Kurt, Duffy if there were time left. He was just settling in his head how things would play out when the door to the cabin opened and Craig Franklin stumbled out, propelled by the shove of a tattooed arm, motivated by a rifle barrel. He turned and started begging. He was speaking in Japanese, so Tim could only assume that it was begging by the tone. The Yakuza suit followed, walking calmly and poised, unmoved by the pleas. He stopped to light a cigarette, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
Tim recounted, friend then foe, then wished hard for his buddy, Weaver, to show up again. He made a deal with God, or the Devil, or whoever might be listening and capable of some supernatural interference – he'd give up bourbon if someone would send him some help, or just some dumb luck.
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