10. Wednesday January 17
Time: 8 AM
The next morning, Ed and Jim check out of a motel just off I29 in a small town north of Kansas City, about a hundred miles south of Omaha. The parking lot is still covered in packed snow from the blizzard the previous week and it's cold. The snow crunches and grinds when it's this cold, it isn't slippery, more like walking in sand on a beach.
They rub their gloved hands together, hop in the car and start the engine. The windshield is iced on the outside and steamed on the inside. Ed looks at Jim, laughs and says, "Where the fuck are we?"
Ed replies, "Fucking Frost Bite Falls, man!"
Jim chuckles, his breath all puffs of steam, his arms clasped across his chest and replies, "Well it ain't Palm Springs, I know that!"
Ed guns the motor a few times in a futile effort to encourage some heat from the car. Slowly, after several minutes, the air from the vents begins blow lukewarm and makes headway against the frosted frozen windows.
Ed reaches forward with an old cloth and rubs the windshield in circles, mainly smearing grease on the already blurred view. Then he hops out and tries clawing at the ice on the glass. Finally, as the glacial frost begins to break up, he switches on the wipers. Small chunks begin to slide and fall away, then larger ones until finally there's enough of a hole big enough to see through.
He pushes the shift into drive and hits the gas. The tires whine and spin in the loose snow. The car slowly fish-tails into motion and they head out of the parking lot and down a frozen, deserted street. The cloud of exhaust steam caught in the cross wind streaks away to their right as they head north for the interstate entrance ramp.
On I29 north, the road surface is mainly bare except where the wind has blown narrow, tapered drifts randomly across the passing lane. They figure they should be in Omaha by noon. The sun's reflection glares from the waves of snow on the fields on either side, a white desert of snow dunes with an occasional house, barn, and a few barren trees.
Big 18-wheelers lumber along, the smoke from their stacks blowing furiously to the east. Every now and than, a great shard of ice rips off some trailer's roof. It tumbles and sails in the air until it smashes to pieces on the road below.
Somewhere west of them, RDX explosives are carefully packed for their rendezvous in Omaha.
Half way to Omaha, they pull off the interstate and into a truck stop for breakfast and coffee.
Truck stops in that part of the world are small cities. In the late morning hour, hundreds of trucks and cars are huddled before a massive complex of low, flat roofed buildings. There are truck washes, restaurants, a fast food court, laundry, barber shop, show room, garages, motels, row after row of diesel pumps, gas pumps, cashier booths and even a dentist. Giant signs fifty feet high mounted on massive tubular steel pylons blink today's price of diesel across the prairie for all to see. A giant coffee pot, the offer of private showers and an animated neon cowboy entice the diesel rigs to stop and buy.
Once in the massive main building Ed and Jim behold a sprawling complex of restaurants [breakfast served round the clock], a gift shop, truck parts store, CB store, novelties, magazines and videos, groceries, snack food, liquor, beer, ATM's, and rest rooms. Other services available upon request.
There's a whiny country song blaring over the ceiling speakers and a lot of fat guys in denim jeans and plaid, flannel shirts lumbering around in high heeled, shit kicker, leather cowboy boots. The women are mainly fat with big hair and dressed in white uniforms with red and white checkered aprons. They have pens on retractable chains and many souvenir badges pinned to their blouses.
Jim grabs Ed's arm, looks at him, rolls his eyes and staggers back a step. Ed laughs and leans over and in a low voice says, "Hey dude? These are your kind of people." Jim kicks him in the ankle.
They spot a table across a sea of truckers eating greasy margarine soaked plates of mashed spuds, gravy, grits, fritters, and brown meat and sopping up the drippings with pasty dinner rolls and thick slices of white bread. Sitting down, Jim runs his hand across the table, looks at his palm, then wipes it on his pants and says, "Nice place. Real clean."
A middle aged woman with a butt the size of a truck tire waddles up to their table holding a gold chained pen and an order pad with several pink pages flipped over. She greets them in an Ozark drawl, "Okay boys, what'll it be?" Her badge reads Daisey.
Ed looks up and says, "Little late for breakfast, how about a cheeseburger platter and a large coffee."
Jim says, "Same but with bacon."
Daisy says, "You want coleslaw or salad?" They both say coleslaw in unison. "You got it boys, be right back with your coffee," as she wobbles off sticking the pad in her apron pocket while her bosom mounted broach reels in the pen.
A few minutes later she's back with a tray from which she slaps down two printed paper place mats, two sets of napkin wrapped silverware, two glasses of ice water, two steaming coffee cups and one mini pitcher of cream.
"Where y'all from?" she asks casually.
"St. Louis," says Ed, "We're heading to Omaha. Any idea how the roads are up there? The snow's drifting badly out on the super slab."
"Hey Leroy," she turns and calls a trucker at the next table, "Didn't you just come through Omaha? How'd the weather look over yer shoulder"
Leroy swings around, smiles, a couple of teeth missing, and says, "Okay, wind's a bit strong but they're keeping the road clear. Just watch out for the ice on them overpasses. Saw some bears taking pictures on the north side, just over the Iowa line."
Ed waves and says, "Thanks, that's a big help." Leroy turns back to his dinner.
After she leaves, Jim says, "Super slab? Exactly when did you learn trucker English?"
"It's a gift, man, it's a gift."
They light cigarettes, drink the coffee and, amused, survey the noisy scene around them. Their order arrives and their coffees refilled. Surrounded by the dingy clatter of a prairie truck stop, they silently sit eating burgers. When they finish, Ed heads to the men's room while Jim waits next to a display of key chains. A passing trucker looks him over then grabs his crotch and says, "Need a ride, boy?"
Jim reacts instantly. He swivels and heaves his knee into the trucker's balls with full force, just as Ed comes out of the men's room. The trucker's eyes bulge as he doubles up in tear filled pain. Jim smiles, and says to the driver, "How's that for a ride, bubba?"
Ed sees the scene and says, "What the fuck's up?" Just as two drivers across the room begin to rush over, one saying, "Let's get the mother fucker!"
Ed and Jim bolt to the exit and race to their car. Jumping in, Ed flips on the ignition and guns the motor. The tires screech and the car speeds off just as the first of fat flannel clad trio get within a few feet of their rear bumper.
Ed quickly pulls back out onto the interstate heading north and says, "What the hell happened, man?"
"He grabbed my dick!"
"And you didn't like it? Oh, come on. Since when?"
"Since now."
"Dude, you need to stop hitting on guys at truck stops. No more bears at truck stops."
"Will you shut up, damn it."
Ed smiles and they drive on through the bone dry, frigid white wasteland of empty drifted fields, past occasional farmhouses, silos and buildings in the distance. Here and there is a dark derelict piece of farm machinery marooned in a bleak field. Every ten miles of so they pass a small town, a tiny cluster of houses, maybe a store, gas station and a water tower. Every town has its name on its water tower, probably so you can tell them apart. One looks pretty much like another.
They pass huge trucks, some with two and three trailers hooked together and weaving in the brisk west wind. The truck tractors all have tall chrome exhaust stacks and high vertical mirrors on each side held in place by heavy chrome tubes. From their high points extend four foot CB whip antennas, waving taughtly in the wind.
But from these mirror mounted masts, relayed CB messages track Ed and Jim's passage. The three dr
ivers from the truck stop have called ahead.
In the road before him, Ed sees a long line of trucks in the right lane and another line further on in the passing lane, a traffic jam of trucks.
"Oh shit, look, one lane's going 58 miles an hour and the other lane's doing about 58.5 miles an hour. Why the fuck do they think they own the fucking road? Looks like we're blocked."
He pulls over into the left lane and closes in behind the last truck. To their right, the lane of trucks extends a quarter of a mile back. Ed begins blowing the horn and flashing his lights.
"That won't help, man, they don't even see you and in those cabs, they don't hear anything but Tammy Wynette."
Then Ed notices that there's a truck behind them now. They're boxed in, one to the right, one ahead, one behind and a high snow banked median to their left. The truck behind pulls up closer. Ed pulls closer to the one ahead and slightly to the right asking, "Can you see any opening on the right ahead? I don't like this."
Jim swings around and sees the truck behind then leans to his right and says, "No, there's no space for a car ahead either. No, man, this ain't right. What'ya think's up?"
"Fucking assholes at the truck stop, that's what. They've called ahead on their damn CB's. They've boxed us in and can't move. I think we're in deep shit, dude!"
They ride this way for about fifteen minutes, trapped between Kenworths, Peterbilts, Macks, and Volvos each pulling 80,000 pound trailers. Suddenly Jim says, "Hey, look, the truck on the right is pulling ahead, we might get out of this."
But as that truck moves forward, another one closely following behind it slides into place. There is no chance to pull into the right lane and off onto an exit or into the breakdown lane. Then another truck passes on the right, and then more. After several trucks parade by to their right, Jim looks up at the driver in the truck that's now next to them. The driver looks down and grins at him as he slowly passes.
Then Jim looks behind and at the truck next in line and says, "Oh shit, it's that cock grabber from the truck stop! And I'm not putting up with this shit any more."
Without hesitating, he quickly flips his seat down flat and scurries into the back seat. He reaches to the floor saying, "Okay mutha fucker, you want it, you got it."
He pulls out an assault rifle from under a blanket and loads a clip of armor piercing rounds. Busting the rear window with the gun stock, he swings it around, flips the safety off and sprays several rounds towards the high, flat windshield of the truck behind them on the right.
Blood explodes in the truck cab. Jim pulls off a few more rounds into the truck's front tires which rupture. Huge straps of tire sail high into the air. Then he blows the front tires on the truck immediately behind them and takes out the rear tires on the trailer whose cab is next to them.
The trucks behind veer violently from one side to the other. The one next to them immediately begins to slow under the drag of its deflated rear tires. He can see the panic in the face of the driver directly behind as his truck smashes into the truck next to it. Both rapidly jackknife. The collision is joined by the decelerating truck to their right. 80,000 pound trailers shear their mounts and tumble over one another crushing the cabs.
Behind, in both lanes, are clustered the better part of fifty more trucks, all come for the entertainment of some four-wheeler getting his due. These too smash at highway speed into the first wreck with millions of pounds of force. Fuel explodes. A gasoline tanker ruptures and a searing red fireball balloons into the blue sky. A propane tanker splits and blows. The wreckage covers more than a mile.
The blocking trucks ahead and to the right of Ed and Jim quickly pull over onto the breakdown lane. The fast lane trucks pull right and slow down. Ed has a clear road ahead. He guns the motor.
Ahead, as far as they can see, all the 18 wheelers are pulled over to the side. As they pass one, a few shots ring out.
Jim says, "Son of a bitch!"
He lowers the window, and sprays each cab as they speed by. No more shots are directed their way. All the drivers are crouched down in their seats or hiding behind their wheel hubs away from the highway. A few diesel tanks rupture from the shots and ignite.
Jim, returns to the front seat and raises the seat back. Ed slyly says, "Now, wasn't THAT special!"
The smoke can be seen for miles across Iowa, Missouri and Kansas
Jim says, "Oh yeah, that was special, very special."
"Dude, we better get another car. I think this one might be hot. How about this next exit?"
"What'ya have in mind?"
"Let's drive out some county road and find a farm. People out here don't suspect nuthin. We can take their car."
"And what about the farmer?"
"He won't be missed, dude, at least not for a while," chuckles Ed.
Ed pulls off the interstate onto a short strip of blacktop and drives east for about a mile where it intersects a north-south gravel county road.
Jim says, "See, out there in the distance? Looks like a prosperous little farm. Let's see if anyone's home."
Ed guns the motor and they bounce along on the uneven pavement heading towards and unsuspecting occupants of a small cluster of farm buildings a few miles distant. A few minutes later they arrive at the long crushed stone driveway leading to the main house and buildings. Ed turns left and heads north towards the farm. A late model car is parked outside the house.
They pull their car up next to the one in the farmyard, get out, and trudge through the snow to the front door. Jim knocks on the door while Ed stands to one side. After a minute, they hear footsteps and the door opens. It's the farmer, a guy about fifty years old holding eyeglasses in one hand and a newspaper in the other.
"Howdy guys, what can I do for'ya," greets the farmer as he holds the storm door open.
Jim says, "I think we're lost, could you give us a hand reading this map?" as he pulls out a map that he picked up at the truck stop.
"Sure thing, come'on in. Margie? We got some company. You guys want some coffee?"
Jim says, "You bet."
"Can you bring out some coffee, honey?"
From the back of the house they hear a woman's voice say, "On my way, dear. How many?"
"Two, Come'on in the dining room and we'll open up that map. Those IADOT maps are very detailed, some of the best maps you can get."
He leads them to the left into the dining room. The house is the traditional four-square design found in farms throughout the prairies. The farmer flips on the overhead art deco chandelier and unfolds the map as his wife joins them with a tray with a coffee pot, cups, cream, sugar and a plate of sugar cookies that she's recently baked. She sets the tray out and says, "Help yourselves, boys."
The farmer says, "Well, here's where we are," pointing to the map.
The farmer is pointing at a faint gray line slightly east of the dark red interstate line. "Now where'ya trying to get to?"
"Omaha," says Ed.
"Well," laughs the farmer, "You sure are on the wrong road. Omaha's over there. You need to be on the interstate. Just go down this road and it'll put you on the interstate."
"Oh, yeah, and we want your car," says Ed who's now pulled out a gun.
Jim says, "Yep," as he pulls out his gun too.
The farmer's wife gives a horrified but soft cry. The farmer drops his reading glasses, steps back and says, "What's this?"
"I guess you'd call it a stick up, that right, Jim?" says Ed.
"I think that's what they call it, Ed."
"Where are your car keys?" says Jim.
The farmer reaches in his pocket, pulls them out and hands them over.
"Now you two, on the floor, face down," says Jim.
The farmer and his wife comply, heads flat on the floor facing one another in terror. Jim says, "You wanna do the honors?"
Ed says, "Okay," and casually shoots both in the head in quick succession. Then he says, "Now, how about that coffee?"
"Sounds good to me," says Jim.
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They drink the coffee and finish off the cookies. Then, carefully wiping for any prints and taking the map, Jim says, "Out here, it'll be days before anyone finds them. Leave a light on in case someone notices the house is dark."
Ed, replies, "You bet. Let's go."
They leave the farmhouse and transfer their goods to the farmer's car. Carefully they wipe down their car for prints with towels from the house then get in the farmer's car and drive off towards the interstate. Winter crows circle curiously above.
Time: 1 PM
On the interstate, traffic is very light due to the carnage a few miles south. Traffic there is blocked in both directions. Ed and Jim have the road to themselves and they make good time. They cross the bridge at Council Bluffs into Nebraska a little after one in the afternoon.
After passing thorough downtown, Jim says, "Hey, I think that's our exit just ahead."
"Yep, 126th Street," as he pulls the car onto the exit ramp and heads south then east on Giles Road a few miles to the motel where they made reservation the night before.
Jim pulls into the parking lot and they register using phony ID's. They pay cash which upsets the desk clerk. She gives them a room on the far side of the building. They pull the car around and take several dark canvas suitcases into the room.
Jim sits down at the small table in the room and pulls out a map of Omaha saying, "Let's see where we go from here. I've only been out here once before, I'm not sure I remember the way."
"It's near the railroad yards, I remember, right next to them, I think," says Ed. "Here, you want a pop?"
"Yeah, and toss me that ashtray, this may take a while."
Ed slouches on an easy chair, takes the remote and turns the TV on. He flicks his lighter and draws on a cigarette then starts channel surfing. He quickly finds an all news channel which, like all the others, is doing wall-to-wall coverage of the wreckage on I29 from a few hours earlier.
"Hey, look at this, man! You're fucking famous," says Ed.
Jim looks up at the TV and sees helicopter shots of the bloodshed on the interstate. There is wreckage everywhere. They watch burning cars and trucks, fire engines, helicopters airlifting casualties, blood drenched snow, police cars from half of Iowa, it seems. Small herds of hogs, escaped from their rolling hog lots, wander aimlessly and dazed in the chaotic scene.
The Chyron banner at the bottom of the screen screams in bold white letters on a blood red background, "Mayhem on I29."
The announcer in a breathless and emotion filled voice says, "It all happened early this afternoon when an unidentified sniper from a speeding car began shooting and killing the drivers of these big rigs. The resulting chain reaction crash has left hundreds injured and nearly 40 people dead from both the trucks you see around me but also from the many smaller cars caught in this maelstrom of destruction. Several gasoline tankers were involved creating the massive fireball that engulfed both sides of the highway."
The announcer begins to walk down the highway and the camera follows. She gestures to the road beyond and continues, "And further down the highway, the unidentified snipers began randomly shooting into the cabs of trucks whose drivers had parked along the side of the interstate, alerted to the murderous spree behind them by their CB radios. State police from Missouri, Iowa and Nebraska have converged on this scene of mass destruction. They've posted a description of the car which you see in the box on the screen along with the license plate number. It belongs to a car reported stolen this morning near Kansas City. Right now, I29 is closed in both directions and not expected to reopen until at least tomorrow. Due to the extreme cold and the blowing and drifting snow from the blizzard last week, the state police have opened the cross-overs in order to move traffic. They hope to clear the cars from the road before the night sets in with expected wind chills down to minus sixty."
"Wow, me and my little gun caused all that?"
"Well, I did the driving," says Ed.
"And very well, too. Hey, look at all them dead hogs and the burnt out tankers. Must have been some fire, dude."
"Too bad there wasn't a truckload of pork chop helper."
"Or trucker helper, hee-hee."
They both watch in awe at their handiwork until Jim notices the time in the lower corner of the screen and says, "Hey, look, we gotta go or we'll be late. I figured out the directions. It should take about fifteen minutes to get to Joe's warehouse."
They get up, pull on their jackets, gloves and stocking caps and head back to the car. A quarter hour later they arrive at Joe's warehouse.
"That must be the parking lot Joe talked about over there," says Ed.
"Yep, I think I recall it," says Jim as he pulls into the lot and parks behind another car so the license plate won't be visible from the street.
They hop out of the car and instinctively look suspiciously around them to see if someone is watching then jog across to the warehouse in the howling wind. Sid is waiting for them at the door. Once inside, they are taken to Joe's bugged office where their conversation is recorded.
Waiting inside the office for them are Joe, and Mark. Jim and Ed introduce themselves then Jim says, "Our car's hot, we kind'a borrowed it after that little road rage incident on I29 in Iowa."
"Yeah, I heard about that. That was you guys? Geeez, let's not start that over here. We're gonna have enough publicity before this is over," says Joe as he rummages around in his desk drawer.
"When you say borrowed, does that mean there are bodies involved?"
"Yeah, well, they won't be talking. But it's cool. They won't be found for a while either."
"In Iowa?"
"Yeah, about fifty miles south of Council Bluffs."
"Okay, here's the keys to that red Grand Am out on the lot. It belonged to a guy named Harry who won't be needing it anymore," says Joe as he hands a ring of keys to Jim. "Give me the keys to your car. I'll have it wiped for prints and ditched on some county road back over there. It'll be drifted over in an hour and won't be found till March. We'll let the Iowa police sort it out. They should be getting good at handling wrecks after today."
At Mo Rún Todd flips open his cell phone, hits a memory dialer sequence and says, "Can you get a GPS locater and an audio bug on that red Grand Am in the lot across the street from the warehouse, Sean? Thanks." He flips the phone closed and looks at the others and says, "Sean says he can do it."
At the warehouse, Jim tosses the key to the farmer's car which has a little plastic locket key chain with a picture of the farmer's wife in it. Joe looks at it for a moment, then up at Jim, then pockets the keys.
"Looks like he had a wife?"
"Yeah, she's won't do any talking either. But she made us some nice cookies," says Ed casually.
Mark and Sid eye each other uncomfortably and squirm a bit in their chairs.
Joe picks up the phone and punches a number. When it answers he says, "Come down to my office, I got a job for you and Roger," and hangs up.
Joe pulls out a file of papers from his desk and says, "Here is the basic layout of the club. It's a renovated old five story warehouse. The central part is an atrium up to the roof. Around the sides at each level except the top there are offices of some kind, we don't know what. On the top floor are apartments where the owner, David Shea, and some of his partners live. That's where we're sure Mike's holed up."
Pointing to one of the diagrams he continues, "This is the main entrance which has a lot of security. These are fire exits which are probably much more secure after the other night, and here is the service entrance where they bring in the beer, food, and so forth. This is where you'll be making your delivery. There's a short ramp up to a back room where they store the beer and other things. This is where you'll drop off the kegs and then put the detonator between the kegs. Make sure the RDX kegs are far to the back so they won't be used first. We don't want them trying to tap them, ya'know?"
"Well, at least not while we're still there," says Jim.
Joe continues, "Here
's some pictures of the interior and exterior of the club. This is a satellite view of it and the surrounding streets and here's a map of that part of town. This is a picture of the loading dock where the beer is delivered."
"Looks good," says Ed.
"Now the beer deliveries are usually around two in the afternoon and Friday's calls for about 12 kegs, all Millers Draught. But first the truck stops at this bar a few blocks away to make a delivery before heading to Mo Rún."
Pointing to a picture of the alley behind the bar where the truck stops just before going to Mo Rún, Joe says, "Here's the plan. Mark and Sid will take a van with the RDX kegs and wait on the street for the beer truck to pull into this alley. This is a good place to take the truck. There are no overlooking windows and it's not visible from the main street."
"While the driver is making his delivery, Mark and Sid will pull in behind the beer truck. You two will park your car and wait up here. When the driver comes out, Mark and Sid will grab him and put him in the van. Then they'll load the RDX kegs onto the beer truck. You two will take it from here. Give Mark your car keys and he'll bring it back here and park it across the street while Sid takes care of the van. Take the beer truck to Mo Rún, make the delivery then bring the truck back here and park it in the warehouse. Mark will give you your keys then you two can then hit the road. Got it?"
"Sounds like you want us out of town?" asks Jim.
"The fewer people here, the better."
"What happens to the beer truck?"
"Jack says the blast will be around 10 pm. Afterward, when every cop in Omaha is focused on the club, Mark and Sid will take the beer truck and the driver a few miles south of here. They overdose him with meth then run the truck and the driver off an old bridge into the Missouri River. It'll look like an accident by some twinked out temp on dope. No one will care anyway. They'll have more pressing problems with a few hundred casualties and a bombed out warehouse. Any questions?"
"Nope, it sounds good to me. Are the RDX kegs the same weight as the regular kegs?" asks Ed.
"Yes, they'll put weights in the bottom and top so they'll have the same feel as the regular kegs in case anyone tries to give you a hand. The RDX kegs will, however, each have a little red sticker on top. That's how you'll know them. I'll show you when they arrive tomorrow afternoon."
"How friendly is the driver with the bar staff?" asks Jim.
"Good news there, the regular driver is on vacation with his kids in Florida and they've been using substitutes. They won't ask any questions if they don't recognize you. You don't need any uniforms either. Not in this weather."
"Lucky bastard who gets Friday's run, then," says Ed.
"Yep, I guess he won't be going home this weekend. Luck of the draw," says Joe.
There's a knock at the door and Nick, one of the warehouse men enters. Joe says, "You and Roger take that white car across the street and dump it in Iowa so it won't be found for a while. Got it?"
He hands Nick the keys to Ed and Jim's stolen car. Nick is one of the guys who tried to abduct Mike and so is Roger. Nick was the one who called out Lance. His jaw is still wired and his face still shows the swelling from the beating he took.
"Okay boss," mumbles Nick as he takes the keys and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
Joe collects the maps, pictures and diagrams and puts them in a manila envelope which he hands to Jim and says, "Okay, let's look at the detonator."
Ed picks up the small bag he brought in with him, reaches in and pulls out the black rubber coated detonator.
"This is it. Neat, ain't it? Just one phone call and, poof, no more problems. Jack can just dial his worries away, hee-hee."
Joe picks it up, looks it over carefully and says, "This is gonna cause a lot of kids to die. I hope it's worth it."
Jim says, "Hey, this is the fun part. We don't get to do too many really big jobs. This will put us in the record books, right ahead of the Oklahoma City job a few years ago. That job only killed 168. We'll beat that record."
Ed laughs, "Sure will, dude."
"I guess we're done here for today. The kegs will be here tomorrow afternoon. Come by around three and look them over. You might want to scout out the club and the streets around it too," says Joe.
They get up. Ed puts the detonator back in the bag and zips it shut. They grab their coats and follow Joe, Mark and Sid out onto the warehouse garage floor. Joe points out the door at one end through which they'll bring the beer truck and tells them where to park it.
"So, it's all right if we go look the place over tonight?" asks Jim.
"Have either of you ever met Mike? He's probably watching the security camera photos from the entrance," asks Joe.
"No, I've never met him," says Ed.
"Me neither," adds Jim.
"Yeah, I guess it couldn't hurt. Just don't do anything obvious."
"Got it, see'ya tomorrow," says Jim as he and Ed shake hands with Joe, Mark and Sid. They pull on their coats, gloves and caps and exit through a different door than they entered. Crossing the street, they head for Harry's car. The car they arrived in is now on it's way to a corn field in Iowa.
Joe looks at Sid and Mark and says, "Those two are real trash. For as long as I've been in this business you don't see many like that. I'll be happy when those two are out'a here."
Mark says, "Ya'know, there's gonna be a lot of dead people after this?"
"Yeah, I know, but there's nothing I can do about it. Better them dead than me and, the way Jack's acting right now, well, ya'all know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I guess so. Pete found out the hard way," says Sid.
Mark and Sid pick up their coats as Mark says, "Okay, so we'll see you here tomorrow afternoon?"
"Right, see'ya then," says Joe as Mark and Sid leave for their car.
Once outside, Mark says, "This is deep shit man. I don't like it at all."
"Me neither, man. Just keep a low profile and do what you're told. You wanna pull a Tom and Bob?"
"Hell no, there's no money in that. No, I just don't want to get caught. There'll be one hell of a lot of cops working on this."
"Yeah, you're right. We need to stay out of the spotlight."
Back at the club, Lance says, "So, how's the signal from Harry's car?"
"I'm getting a good reading," says Todd. "Here's a map with their current location."
A street map of part of Omaha opens on the screen and a blinking red dot is seen moving on it.
"And here's the audio feed."
The sound of a car engine plays through the speakers and they hear Ed say, "Well, this doesn't look too hard. Just deliver the goods, set the detonator and then we head to Salt Lake. Piece of cake."
"Right but I really wish we could be here for the blast. You don't get a chance to do this sort'a thing very often."
"Don't worry, Jack will be sure it's photographed and there will be a shit load of news by the time we get to western Nebraska that night," says Ed.
"Yeah, I guess you're right but I do like fireworks, ya'know?" says Jim.
"Yeah, I know. So does everyone on I29. So, in the meantime, what's up?" says Ed.
"Back to the motel I guess? Something to eat then we go see this club for ourselves?"
"Hey, I'll call Mark and Sid, see if they want to come along," says Ed. He calls Mark's cell phone and Mark agrees and they arrange to meet in the parking lot across from the club at about eight pm.
Lance turns to David, "Well, I guess we get to meet them first hand tonight?"
"I guess so. Give the staff their mug shots. So, what are we gonna do about their kegs of RDX?"
"Oh, I think I can handle them," grins Lance.
"What'ya mean?"
"Now, you don't want me to spoil the surprise, do you?" chuckles Lance.
"Actually, yes. I'd prefer not to be surprised when it comes to a very large bomb."
"You know I'm not gonna tell'ya, so live with it. I'll take care of the RDX. So, what about Jack? His batting aver
age so far isn't very good. Is Jack wrong all the time?"
"Ahh, no, he's not that consistent. Let's hope this is his swan song," says Mike.
"I'll see that my guys know what's up. Now I need to go make a few arrangements," says Lance as he gets up and heads for the door.
Time: 7 PM
Ed and Jim get something to eat and cruise the area around the club. After a few hours, they return to their motel. They lounge around the motel room, watch TV, smoke dope, and drink beer. They watch all the news coverage they can find of their shootout on I29. The road is still closed in both directions and not expected to re-open until late Thursday.
Around 7 pm they go out again. By now Lance has ID'd their motel and has them followed. They eat at a Tex-Mex restaurant a few miles away. While they eat, audio bugs are installed in their motel room.
They return about half an hour later don their club attire. Ed wraps his neck in a long knit scarf with UNO colors and logos that he bought at a strip mall store. He pulls on a parka with hood and red knit gloves. Meanwhile Jim wraps his neck in a white silk scarf, slips into a seriously expensive leather jacket with matching black leather gloves and a red stocking cap over his head from under which a generous amount of blond hair shows. Ed waits while Jim preens in the mirror. They look around the motel room to see if they've forgotten anything and then head for the car. A few minutes later they park in the lot across from Mo Rún where Mark and Sid are already waiting.
"Geeez, aren't you a bit over dressed?" asks Mark.
"What'ya mean? We dress like this all the time at the clubs in St. Louis. What'ya wear to a dance club out here? Bib-overalls?" quips Ed.
"Maybe something a little less conspicuous, that's all."
"Don't worry man, two days from now, nobody will recognize us and, if they do, so what? We're temp drivers, remember?"
They all trot across the snow covered street and join the shivering line queuing at the door. As they reach the entrance, they take off their gloves and stash them in coat pockets. They pull out their fake ID's to hand to the bouncer. He looks at the ID's, swipes them, and passes them through. They were not happy that their ID's were swiped but they were fake anyway. Lance's bouncer knew they were fake too.
Once inside, they survey the club. It's more than they expect despite the descriptions and the pictures Mark and Sid took. The place is filling up with a milling, boisterous crowd.
Ed steps to one side while Jim takes off his leather jacket. He pulls off the stocking cap and stuffs it into a sleeve. All four head to the cloak room and hang their coats and stomp off the caked snow from their shoes. Mark and Sid lead them over to the stage while cameras follow their every move. Jim attracts attention, as girls turn and watch him pass.
Mark, seeing the turning heads, says, "You sure attract the gals."
"I try to," says Jim. "Maybe I'll get lucky, what'ya think?"
"I think luck will have nothing to do with it," replies Mark.
They edge towards the front of the stage. Sid points and says, "That's where the Harry and Steve show was. You can just barely see a trace of the police chalk outline and a faint blood stain over there."
"Did you know them?" asks Ed.
"Nah, we only just met them. They worked for Joe. We didn't know them very well. Joe must have thought of them as expendable and they were, as the case turned out."
"You mean he sacrificed them trying to get this Mike guy?" asks Jim.
"Yeah, that's about the way it happened. You know, the cause of death wasn't the beating they took or burning. According to the coroner, it was coronary arrest. They'd been given a lethal dose of meth," says Mark.
"Huh, that so?" says Jim.
"Yep, that's so."
"Nice to know who your friends are," says Ed who turns and looks to the laser equipment suspended from the dark scaffolding hanging high above the club.
"That's where the lasers are, or at least some of them. They're all computer controlled and can be targeted to hit just about anywhere in here. That night, they got targeted on Harry and Steve. Made a nasty mess of them too. Then their coats caught fire, according to the news reports," says Mark.
"That's when the crowd rushed them?"
"Right, nothing like a couple of hundred enraged drunks to ruin your night out. They beat the shit out of them. That's how the gasoline caught fire."
"What's that I see up there? Birds?"
"Yep, the song birds. Canaries I guess. Tame, too. They come down and sing with the bands, some nights. The noise doesn't seem to bother them."
They head towards the bar and Ed orders some beers, lights a cigarette, and they lean back on the bar and watch the crowd. The sound system comes to life with a disco standard. The crowd begins to bob up and down in sync with the rhythm.
Ed says to Mark, "So you guys were here that night?"
"Yeah," says Sid. "I was the one who started the first distraction with the firecrackers and small fire bombs then I let Harry and Steve in through the emergency exit door over there near the stage. Once the panic began, Mark slipped through into the elevator room and opened the loading dock door for the guys who were gonna hit Mike. But somehow they were on to us and they were waiting. In the meantime, the lasers and the crowd took out Harry and Steve. We were outside by then so we didn't see the real fireworks."
"Is that the back room where they store the kegs?" asks Jim pointing to a door behind the bar at the further end.
"Yeah, I think that's it," says Sid. "Say, what the hell happened on I29 today anyway? Did you guys really cause all that mess?"
Jim chuckles and says, "Oh yeah! We did that. Did'ya ever see so many dead truckers and hogs? Not that there's much difference."
"No, I never saw so many overturned trucks either. Hope none of those dudes ever catches up with you," says Mark.
"That won't ever happen. Them assholes are all stupid, like the hogs they haul," say Jim as he takes a long drink from his bottle of beer.
They stand around, drink beers, and comment on the local talent for about an hour.
"It's nearly 10 pm, the show should begin about now," says Sid. Right on cue, the band starts wandering on stage. David comes out and introduces them.
Mark elbows Ed and says, "That's David Shea."
The band begins to play and David quickly makes an exit to the elevator.
Jim leans over and yells above the music, "The band's pretty good. Too bad their engagement is limited."
After a while, Jim says, "I'm beat, too much time on the road this week. I think we better head back to the motel."
Ed nods in agreement and they all head for the cloak room where they grab their jackets, gloves, scarves and caps. After a minute of putting the cold weather gear back on, they all walk out the main door.
At the parking lot Mark says, "Okay, see you guys tomorrow afternoon over at Joe's."
"You bet," says Sid. "We'll be there."