Edge of the Pit
Books by Bill Thesken
The Lords of Xibalba
The Oil Eater
Blocking Paris
Window
Edge
of the
Pit
Bill Thesken
Copyright © 2016 Bill Thesken
First Edition Published 2016
Koloa Publishing, LLC
www.koloapublishing.com
P.O. Box 1609
Koloa, HI 96756
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, events, places, organizations are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, organizations or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book cover designed by Deranged Doctor Design
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ISBN 978-0-9903519-5-5
ISBN 0-9903519-5-5
Contents
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Epilogue
1.
My name is Badger Thompson.
I work for a protection service. Our clients are the richest people in the country, the top one percenters, and they pay a lot of money to stay safe.
It’s getting near midnight and I’ve been on location since it got dark a few hours ago, huddled in the middle of a large bush near enough to the mansion to see all the entrances and most of the property surrounding it. I use the infrared scope to scan the property and then listen. Scan and listen.
I carry three identical handguns, loaded with the safeties off, extra ammo on my belt, two boot knives, a couple of stun grenades, a hand held Taser, and a few canisters of the all-around useful pepper spray.
My old man had a saying when I was growing up, used to tell it to me all the time: “Nothing good happens after midnight son, that’s when the shit hits the fan.”
Trying to scare me, or warn me to stay out of trouble, stay away from the bottom half of the night. I didn’t listen very well.
The old man had a lot of sayings, and he wasn’t right about everything, but he sure as hell was right about that one.
I do a lot of my work at night, some of it after midnight and I’ve seen the fan in action a few times. You never really know when someone’s gonna hit the ‘on’ switch and you gotta be ready at all times.
I’m the guy on the edge of the crowd, the guy you never see, never notice, never even hear about. I watch the perimeter and look out for the bad guys.
They put me on the edge of houses, parties, events. I’m like an early warning device for a tsunami or a nuclear attack, only I don’t just warn.
They put me on the edge for a reason. I can blend in, make myself invisible and take out trouble like most people take out the trash. I know how the bad guys think, how they look, how they move, what they’re capable of. I know because once upon a time I was the bad guy, and could still be one at the drop of a hat, or a bullet.
The bad guys work at night, so we work at night. Like a cat against a rat. They rotate us in and out like pieces of a machine, watching, ever watching, on the perimeter. Always on the perimeter. Sometimes we have to spring into action, but it’s rare, and we can’t watch everyone all the time, we burn out like anything else, get tired, need sleep.
I’m the guy on the edge, in more ways than one. There’s a few good ones, and I’m one of the best there is. For now that is. You can never be the best forever, but for now I’m about as close as anyone will get.
The bodyguards, the close circle of protection next to the client, they know I’m out here, somewhere, they just don’t know where I’m at, or what I look like, who I am. I come and go like a shadow, or a wisp of the wind. Like a myth that’s talked about quietly in the dark of night for fear of someone hearing.
It’s better that way, gives an extra layer of protection for the client. The less people know about the guys on the perimeter, the better it is for everyone. We don’t get in their way, and they don’t get in ours. We’re an unknown quantity as far as the bad guys are concerned. If they knew about us, they’d prepare for us, and we can’t have that. The perimeter is like the wild zone, a no man’s land, we’re on our own out here, and we don’t want anyone to point us out and say, ‘See look over there, our force protection is out in front, we’re safe here in this circle.’ We’d be sitting ducks out here.
It’s gotta be like this: we’re the ones coming in silent and secret and unknown and hitting the bad guys before they can hit us, before they even know what the hell happened to them.
When I was seventeen my Dad passed away. Hit me like a brick to the head. It happened so suddenly that I never had time to say goodbye.
It’s a tough time for any kid in the dangerous late teen years when you need someone to talk to, look up to, and I took it pretty hard. All stability in my life was gone.
My Grandpa moved in and tried to fill the gap, but it wasn’t the same. He was old and grumpy and set in his ways and we had a hard time talking. I started running with a gang in the ugly part of town, drinking and fighting and battling the other gangs, thought I was a tough guy. I was young and angry and stupid.
My Grandpa found out I was skipping school and dragged me by the scruff of my neck down to the Army recruitment center and signed me up. One year later I was in Baghdad during the surge, living in the Green Zone during the day in an air-conditioned bomb proof shelter, and at night going out to the city with my platoon, busting down doors and rounding up the bad guys.
Half the people in the city hated us, and wanted to kill us. The other half also hated us, but just wanted to be left alone. It was hard to tell by looking at them which was which since they all looked the same. Except when they were shooting at us or throwing grenades in our general direction, then you could tell who the trouble makers were, and that’s why we were there, to calm things down and restore some semblance of law and order that we obliterated in the invasion. To fix a broken machine if that was even possible. Put it all back together again so we could get the hell out of there.
We didn’t look the same or speak their language or understand their customs, and make a mistake, make one false move and you’re dead. But, we had the best weapons and night vision gear that money could buy, and a city full of bad characters. It was more excitement than any guy my age should be allowed.
Usually the Intel we got was pretty good and we kept our casualties to a minimum. But every once in a while we got juiced and had to fight our way in or out, and we had to keep a tight group. There were enemy snipers and car bombs, improvised explosive devices buried next to every road in the country, ambushes, mortar attacks, rocket propelled grenades, and a lot of angry people surrounding you on every street corner, you could see it their eyes, they were occupied and given the chance would cut your head off. Being in a little gang back home was kids’ stuff compared to Baghdad.
Johnny was sick one night with a high fever and pneumonia, and they put me on the perimeter. I spotted something suspicious and disarmed a sniper before he knew what hit him, and I stayed on the perimeter for the rest of my tour. I was really good at it, and when I got out of the Army, the agency looked me up and signed me to a team.
The money is good, and I’m working hard and saving ev
ery penny so I can buy two small yachts, a sailboat and a power boat so I can start my own business providing boat rides and security in one bundle. I’ll call the sailboat ‘Sugar’, and the power boat ‘Spice’, and I’ll provide the service for the top ten percenters. The one percenters are turning out to be a pain in the rear, and probably wouldn’t be caught dead on a piddly quarter million dollar scow anyways.
They pay me a grand per day and let me work up to five per week so I’m crisp and alert, and ready for action. That’s a cool quarter million per year, and I’m getting close to my goal of half a million for the boats. It’s taken almost four years, what with all the tax collectors riding my back like a monkey after a banana.
The crickets are loud tonight. It’s pitch black dark with no moon, the stars hidden by an overcast sky of high clouds and no wind. Sound travels far in these conditions and I use it to my advantage. The crickets are my friends, like sentinels in the night, and when they stop singing I know something is moving near them, or they’re cautious. It could be nothing, and it could be everything. The Indians used the birds of the forest for hunting, they could understand the language in a way that’s long been lost, know when certain animals, or their enemies were nearby. Nights like this I use the crickets, and the wind. Like a blind man feels the change of volume in a room from confined to cavernous I hear the subtle change of sounds. It’s an acquired skill. From working at night.
It’s a huge sprawling property on the edge of suburban sprawl which is itself on the edge of the giant city. Fenced and gated, five square acres, an oasis of trees and lawns and open space, long winding brick driveways bordered with flowers.
Bentleys and Mercedes are parked in front of the house which looks like it could host one hell of a party. Modern Victorian with long tall windows, gabled roofs and covered patios at each side.
She opened the door and stood in the light, holding it open for a moment like she was standing on a stage. The star. Her hair was long and golden brown, flowing over the white evening gown and down her shoulders, pouting lips, soft cheeks. This girl has it all, tawny skin, sultry look, and the kind of attitude that says I have it going on and I know that you know it.
Feelings like molasses, sweet and honey thick choked my gut, and I got rid of them quickly.
She’s the rich guy’s friend, so they sent us to escort her to the destination safely. It’s a job. Get the package from one point to another, and then back again. Like the US Postal service. Easy.
She sweeps down the staircase holding the hem of her long white dress with one hand and her purse with other and walked towards one of the shiny black Bentley’s, the bigger of the two in front. The chauffeur bowed and held the door open for her, he actually bowed. If I didn’t see it with the scope I wouldn’t have believed it. Like he was bowing to the Queen of England. One of the bodyguards, a burly character built like a keg of beer in a suit and tie, climbed into the front passenger seat of the bigger Bentley, while the other two got into a another smaller Bentley behind it and I can barely hear the engines come to life. Smooth as silk.
They’re on the move. I scan the perimeter again with the infrared scope, looking for trouble and seeing nothing. I’m the forward advance guy, and I’m on the move way in front of them, jogging silently through the trees to my transportation for the evening.
They’re heading to a party, a late one at some rap club downtown in the gritty belly of the city. Why in the hell someone would want to go to a party after midnight in a sleazy club downtown was beyond me. They probably never heard my Dad’s old saying.
I slide through the tree line and hop on the chopper that’s sitting on the street below, and as I rev the motor, the un-muffled blast of pure gas combustion engine, a double banger, the two pistons firing obnoxious and loud as I can make it, the people standing across the street look at me with a mixture of reactions ranging from fear and admiration to disgust. Mostly it’s fear though. A strange biker with bulging muscles and a torn leather jacket revving a Harley near midnight outside your driveway will do that to people. It’s a Friday night and I nod towards them and roar off in a blast of exhaust and head to the thoroughfare. The long driveway that winds down from the mansion connects to the highway and I pull in behind the two Bentley’s as they race down the road ahead of me.
They’re moving at a good clip, around sixty five, well over the speed limit. A little twist of the accelerator grip and I blow by them and put some distance between us, but I keep one eye on them in the rear view mirror. It’s clear up ahead and we’re coming up to an intersection. I pass through it just as it’s turning yellow. Bad timing. They’re too far back and have to stop at the light, and I slow down a bit to keep them in sight. I’m coming to a curve in the road and gear down quickly so my brake light won’t alert anyone that I’m slowing down.
I can see two large SUV’s hemming the Bentley in on each side, and when another large SUV pulls right in front of them and stops I realize they’re in trouble. It’s a classic box maneuver. I swing the chopper around and gun it full throttle for the intersection. I can see muzzles pointed at the windshield, stun grenades and flashes. I’m still a few hundred yards away and closing, and a flash of light blinds me and I feel like I’m floating through the air, just floating and floating, effortless and free, not a care in the world, except there’s an elephant sitting on my chest, and my head is in a vice grip, and there’s an annoying beeping sound…..
2.
“He’s waking up.”
The elephant is not only sitting on my chest, he’s sitting on my eyelids and I struggle to open them. It’s blinding white. I’m in a room. Turns out the damn elephant isn’t only sitting on my eyelids he’s also sitting on my brain and I’m struggling to understand what I’m looking at. The elephant has a face and he’s looking down at me, two, three of them are looking down at me, no wonder it’s so damned heavy, there’s three of ‘em. There’s tubes hanging from bottles and stretched towards my body. I try to raise my head. Why the hell does that light have to be so damned bright? And where’s my motorcycle? The annoying beeping sound is coming from my right side and I see the big box with the flickering green lights, and numbers, wires coming down towards me, attached to me.
Uh oh. I’m in a hospital. I remember what this is like. The weirdest feeling in the whole damn world. I’m waking up, someone just said that and it wasn’t me. It came from one of the elephants standing on me and looking down at me. I try to raise my head again and say something but my brain still won’t start up, it won’t connect to my lips. I can’t feel my lips moving. What the hell is going on here?
“Take it easy buddy, easy now. Increase the dose nurse. He’s coming out of it.”
I blink again and focus on the guy doing the talking, in the white coat, a clean shaven Asian guy, he’s got a stethoscope hanging from his neck and thick eyeglasses and a loud voice.
My brain is starting up, and I manage a small sound like a whistle that starts and stops and I don’t know where the sound is coming from or how to control it.
“What…?” It feels like my whole body is in an echo chamber and my tongue is coated with sand. “What…” I try again.
“Take it easy okay? You’ve been in an accident but you’re alright now. You’re safe here in our hospital. You’re going to be okay.”
He brought his hand by my nose and pointed a bright flashlight into my eyes. I tried to close them but he was holding them open with his fat fingers and shining the light into the back of my skull.
What the hell is wrong with this guy… I blinked a few more times in rapid action and the room came into view. I was sitting halfway propped up on a bed, there were tubes and wires connected all over me. There were two white coated guys looking down at me and one super-hot nurse, I couldn’t help but look at her, and that brought my brain quickly into focus, she increased the dosage, someone had said that out loud. She sure as hell did increase the dosage.
“That’s enough nurse,” said the Asian guy, an
d she stepped away from the bed. This Asian guy was beginning to get on my nerves.
“You’ve been in an accident son, and we had to put you in a coma for a couple of days to let the swelling go down. You’ve got three broken ribs, multiple contusions, and a concussion…”
My senses are coming back to me. A couple of days he said. What does that mean, two, three days, a week?
Some peoples idea of a couple of days can vary. I open my mouth and try to turn my head to the side. My head is wedged between two thick pieces of foam, the vice grip. The nurse leans over me and takes the foam away, she’s full figured and even though the name on her tag says Amber, she smells like strawberries and I rotate my neck and look around. I’m in a basic one person hospital room, maybe a little bigger than a closet, and square, there’s a tiny bathroom in the corner, a television hanging from the ceiling, and two guys dressed in black suits and ties leaning against a wall, watching me. A burly guy with a face like a ham sandwich and a short skinny guy wearing reflective sunglasses. Now who in the hell wears sunglasses inside? Some damn asshole who doesn’t want you to see his eyes.
“How are you feeling?” asked the Asian doc.
I opened my mouth again and thought I’d give it another try. “Like… I got… run over… by a truck.”
He smiled at that, must have gotten a kick out of it in fact. “Well at least you can talk. Can you say the first ten letters of the alphabet?”
“This… a… test?” I managed. “Alright,” I swallowed, “the first ten letters… of the alphabet.” Telling him exactly what he asked me to say.
He smiled wryly at that, and then patted me on the shoulder and motioned to the two suits. “He’s all yours. We’ll be back to tuck him in when you’re done.” He turned to me again. “You’ll be with us for a couple of days, we want to monitor your condition. These gentlemen need to ask you some questions. Just don’t get too agitated, okay? We’ll be back when they’re done to give you something to sleep again.”