Sin City Assassin (The Bill Dix Detective Series Book 3) (23 page)

Dix chuckled then moaned, “Actually, I am.”

“What? Are you pulling my chain?” asked Snead.

“Nope. Blass, Laurin, whoever the hell he is, tried to free the assassin we had in custody there. She’s dead now and he got away.” Dix found it difficult to admit Laurin had in fact gotten away. The fact he was still free pissed him off to no end.

Snead whistled. “Hot damn, I guess he’s a real piece of work. Be careful, man. I’d come help you but my bum hip has me tied up.”

Dix loved that his friend and mentor always took care of him. “Don’t worry buddy, I’m taking things slower and my head is on a swivel.”

“All right, I’ll send the email. You keep me posted.” Snead hung up and went back to digging up more information pertaining to Robert Blass.

Dix stepped back into the room with Pierre. On the large projection screen was the current location, within six meters, of the target device. Superimposed on the location was a map from Google Earth, indicating the most recent building and roads in the area. Near as Dix and Pierre could tell, the phone was on a small ranch just outside Pahrump.

Dix wanted to call Frasier to see what kind of strike team he could assemble, but stopped because the man needed rest.

He looked at Pierre. “Who should I call to get a team out there to take on that ranch?” He wasn’t sure Pierre would know the answer, but in his experience, analysts knew quite a bit more than they let on.

“Well, I’d call Sergeant Kunkel with SWAT. The dude is an animal, and they train all the time. In fact, he and his team are tied in with the feds and do what you call,” he paused to make air quotes with his hands, “‘black ops.’” He longed to work as a cop and be on such a team, but lousy eyesight made it impossible.

Dix smiled. “My kind of guy. You have his number?”

“I sure do.” Pierre thumbed through the contacts in his cell phone then shared the number for Kunkel with Dix. 

Dix’s cell phone beeped, indicating he had a text message.

“Thanks, kid. I’ll keep you posted. Don’t go anywhere, things are about to get real interesting.”

Chapter 41:

Blass pulled off the highway and followed the dirt road to one of his ranches. As he climbed the hill to the house, the sun’s angle in the sky forced him to use his hand as a shield to see the road. Normally this would have upset him, but now, he breathed a sigh of relief as he reached his safe house. He snickered because he knew the elevated house would give him the upper hand if law enforcement came looking for him. His father had always told him to be above his adversary, both in physical location and intelligence.

He pulled into the garage, parked, and got out. On the outside, the home seemed old and slightly run down. He’d paid extra to make the home look like all the other ranches in the area. However, on the inside, the home’s walls were fortified with steel plates and the windows were bullet-resistant. Along with a large cache of weapons, numerous cameras covered every inch of the home and perimeter. The single road leading from the highway to the ranch was the only way in or out by vehicle. The only thing he couldn’t safeguard against was an aerial assault. But, even that would be difficult because a helicopter would be in the restricted zone for the international airport and the winds howled behind the property making it very difficult to manage a helicopter, even for a seasoned pilot.

Blass unlaced his body armor and cast it on the garage floor. He noticed a sharp pain near his big toe as he pulled the armor off his right foot. He could see his sock had torn and quite a bit of blood had coagulated.
Those son
of a bitches shot me!
It hadn’t really hurt before, but now that he knew about the bullet wound and his adrenaline had come way down, it began to throb and burn. He slowly walked to a stool with wheels on it, sat down gingerly, and slid over to a workbench. He pulled out one of the drawers and retrieved a pair of needle-nose pliers. Next to the pliers sat a bottle of Maker's Mark 46 bourbon. He took a nice long chug from the bottle.

He fished out some gauze and antiseptic from a medical kit and pulled out some thread and a needle. He took another swig from the bottle and plunged the pliers into his foot. He grimaced and yelled as loud as he possibly could while he probed for the bullet fragment. It felt like hours, but within a few minutes, the wound was clear, treated, and sewed up. He looked at the bottle of bourbon. “Gonna need a few of these tonight, I suppose.”

His cell phone began to vibrate and almost slid off the workbench. Blass lunged and grabbed it. He looked at the caller id and smiled.

“Took you long enough,” he said though clenched teeth.

“We was in a brawl, eh, but we’re already catching one of your fancy planes to come bail you out,” replied the caller.

Blass enjoyed the sound of that and felt a sense of relief. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and grabbed another swig of the bourbon. “Meet me at the ranch in Pahrump. I need all of you here as soon as possible. That means don’t stop to gamble or pick up some hookers on the way. You got it?” Blass had a feeling he could be in for a long night. He wasn’t opposed to taking on cops by himself, but he realized he stood a much better chance if his gang of thugs were there to back him up.

“Yeah, we got, eh. We extracting ya or killing some bastards?” The man hoped he and his buddies would get to stir up some shit in the states, then leave without a trace.

“Well, that remains to be seen,” Blass grumbled. “I don’t think they got shit on me, but even a broken clock is right two times a day. Just get the hell out here so we can get back to Canada.”

“Ah well, wheels up in five. See you in a bit.”

Blass finally put some weight on his foot. It hurt, but he could tolerate the pain. He entered the house, turned on the computers and surveillance systems, and found another bottle of Maker's. He turned on the television and chuckled at how every major news station ran stories about his assault on the federal building. He watched the footage intently, hoping to see Marie. An image of Dix flashed on the screen causing the vein in his forehead to throb. He threw his tumbler across the room in disgust. It shattered into pieces. He turned the volume lower on the television and flipped a switch to a police scanner, allowing him to hear police activity nearby. The antenna on his house detected every police agency in the valley, including the feds.

The scanner picked up a few calls for service, but nothing crazy, which made him feel a little better. Voices in his head argued over whether he was overreacting or in the clear. It was possible someone saw his face during the attack, but no one knew his true identity. 
And even if they figure out Robert Laurin, they sure as hell won’t figure out who I really am.
He focused on getting back to Canada. He’d erase the Robert Laurin identity completely and start a new one when he returned home.

He wanted to turn off his phone because he knew doing so would thwart trackers. However, he needed the phone to plan his escape. And, based on his fruitless assault on the federal building, his escape would be much more difficult if the police caught on to him. He decided he’d turn his phone off and on every so often, just in case.  

Blass walked into the study and grinned when he looked at his desk. He lumbered over, depressed a switch located under the massive wooden desk, and sat down in the oversized leather chair. The two bookcases in front of him slid apart, revealing an assortment of weapons, cash, pre-paid cell phones, radios, and body armor. He smiled as the bookcases parted. He tried to get up, but pain shot through his foot and leg, making it impossible. “Damn it! Who makes body armor that leaves your foot exposed!” He wondered if he had missed a small piece of the bullet in his toe, but he didn’t have time to address it.
I’ll have the doctor fix it when I get home.

He put more pressure on his foot and willed himself to stand. Each step sent pain up his shin and caused him to grit his teeth, but he pressed on to retrieve the bottle of bourbon and painkillers in the shelf a few feet away.  He dragged his foot and made it to the shelf. He took a long swig of bourbon and popped a few painkillers.
Perfect way to self medicate,
he mused.

His foot began to numb, making it easier for him to move. He started loading the guns, laying out the body armor, and planning how he and his gang would defend the ranch if necessary. Every so often he checked the camera monitors and listened for chatter on the police scanners. So far, everything seemed fine. He really didn’t want a shoot out with the cops, mostly because eventually they’d overpower him and his gang and he’d have no options then. His old man had taught him many things—including he never wanted to go to prison. Blass determined he’d kill as many cops as he could and go down fighting and whatever happened, he would not end up in prison.

The painkillers and alcohol began to take a toll on him. Objects in the room blurred and began to spin.
Damn, I’m drunk. I should slow down and eat something.
He found himself walking around the home peering out windows and constantly fidgeting with the firearm on his hip. It dawned on him that he felt no more pain in his foot, but he cursed under his breath because he would be useless now in a firefight. Slowly his body began to shut down. Fatigue, self-medication, and sheer exhaustion made his eyes feel heavy.
I can’t fall asleep
, he thought.

He found a baggie of cocaine, chopped up a line with a credit card, and snorted it. Within seconds he perked up and felt a jolt of energy course through him. He’d done many things under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Truth be told, he actually believed he performed better and thought better high or drunk. However, this time he just felt giggly and extremely hungry.

In the kitchen he found some pre-made frozen burritos. He threw a couple in the microwave and hit start. The device hummed and the burritos turned slowly. Blass stared at them as they turned around and around. Memories of when he was a kid, when his dad would show him how to hold and shoot a gun, or kill a man with a knife, flooded his altered mind. He missed his dad and wished he could see him now.
You’d love the fight I took to them today, Dad.

As soon as the timer buzzed indicating the burritos were done, Blass heard the audible alert from the ground sensors at the roadway leading to the ranch. His heart skipped a beat.
What am I going to do? How the fuck did they find me?

He hobbled over to the monitor and saw a large SUV lumbering up the dirt road to his home. He didn’t see any other cars behind it, but Blass figured at least six cops could fit in the SUV.
They wanna fight, well we’re gonna give it to them!
He hobbled back to the stash room and fumbled to put on body armor. He managed to fit a plate carrier over his chest and grabbed an AR-15. Before walking to the front of the home he grabbed as many boxes and magazines full of ammunition he could hold.

The SUV drove very slowly up the hill. The range-finding binoculars showed the SUV stopped 347 yards from the house. Blass resisted every urge in his body to fill it with bullets. He paused, hoping the SUV belonged to a lost motorist. If he fired on it and someone survived, they could call the police and they’d come after him with everything they had. It slowed to a stop and pulled over slightly. Blass tapped the trigger of his rifle and examined the driver with his scope, expecting the worse.

A figure leaped out of the passenger side of the SUV and began puking everywhere. Blass laughed uncontrollably.
That poor bastard is more torn up than me.
After a few minutes, the figure slowly climbed back into the SUV. Blass smiled as the vehicle turned around and left. He started to feel his heartbeat in his wounded foot. “Time for another shot of bourbon,” he muttered out loud.

He finally plopped himself down on the sofa, a remote in one hand and an automatic rifle in the other. He flipped through channels and suddenly heard gunshots. He panicked until his eyes and brain registered the sounds came from the television. Blass laughed again and noticed Scarface was on. He bellowed, “Say hello to my little friend,” as he posed with his AR-15 rifle. His eyes grew heavy and he thought about taking another hit of cocaine.
I’ll be a total wreck if I do that.
He counted the million different ways he would kill Bill Dix while he waited for his gang to arrive. On the fifth or sixth idea, his eyes closed and he fell fast asleep.

Chapter 42:

Dix drove to a secondary location to brief with Sergeant Kunkel and his team. He’d already made his calls to Petersen and his wife, and his stomach felt uneasy, suggesting his nerves were on overload. He found Blass intriguing with his wild upbringing and all, but he stroked his chin considering how close they were to apprehending him.

He pulled into a secure parking lot at the sheriff’s office and parked. Two very large men in OD green BDUs greeted him.

One stretched out his massive hand. “I’m Hernandez, and you must be Bill Dix.”

Dix shook his hand and stepped back, admiring the man’s physique.

The man pointed to the other agent. “And this is Phan.”

They shook hands and Dix was led into a conference room full of agents. Someone had plastered photos of Robert Blass, aka Robert Laurin, all over the room and set up a podium for Dix to give a quick briefing. Impressed, Dix knew he had called the right guy for help. He chuckled as it turned out another analyst knew far more than people would think.

“First off, thanks for helping me,” Dix said politely. “And secondly, make no mistake about it—the guy we’re gonna try to apprehend is one bad dude.”

The men snickered and dismissed Dix. It was clear they thought they were hot shit.

Oh boy
, he thought. Dix noticed one man looking at him intently.
Maybe that’s Sergeant Kunkel. Why haven’t I met him yet?

A man short in stature and built like a fireplug entered the room and the rest of the men stopped fooling around and stood in unison. They saluted him as he made his way to Dix.