loaded the piece, and thumbed the selector switch to autofire. He pointed the weapon at a metal bucket on a countertop at the far side of the room and squeezed the trigger, letting off a three-round burst.
The silenced SMG made a quick coughing noise that sounded like the stuttering of a compressed air hose. There was no explosion of gunfire, only a whispered phtt-phtt-phtt!
The metal bucket danced and rattled as it was drilled three times. It bounced off the counter, hit the floor, and rolled.
Griff said, “Nice!”
Jack said, “These could come in handy.” He didn’t have to tell the bikers twice. They were already helping themselves to the weapons with eager avidity. Jack said, “You know how to use them?”
Griff gave him a disdainful look as if he’d just been insulted. “Are you kidding?”
Rowdy said, “I cut my teeth on these babies.”
The bikers stuffed the side pockets of the denim vests bearing the Hellbenders’ colors with extra clips for the SMGs. Rowdy said, indignant, “This is probably part of the same load that Reb stole from the club.”
Griff said, “We’ll return ’em to him with interest— the slugs, anyway. Poetic justice, I call it.” He locked and loaded an SMG and pointed it at Pettibone, who stood off to one side trying to make himself inconspicuous. Pettibone’s hands were still cuffed behind his back but his feet had been freed. The noose still encircled his neck, its free end of rope hanging down his front.
Pettibone yelped, recoiling. Jack said, “We need him, Griff.” Griff looked disappointed but lowered the weapon. “Well… maybe later.” Jack said, “Why wasn’t the rear guard armed with these, Pettibone?”
“They’re part of Reb’s private stash — for use in the Action only.”
That was Pettibone’s term for the planned strike against Sky Mount: “the Action.” Jack was unsure whether that was the captive’s private usage or the group’s general label for the strike. Not that it mattered. It meant conspiracy to commit mass murder whatever it was called.
The kitchen was equipped with a rusted metal container that looked like it had once been a cooler or food storage locker. It was eight feet long, four feet high, and three feet deep. Rowdy test-fired his SMG by shooting at it. The machine pistol went brrrrip! The silencer suppressed not only the reports but the muzzle flare. Jack noted that with approval. It meant that no telltale flashes of light would betray the presence of a shooter. It worked both ways, of course. Reb Weld’s hit team was armed with the pieces and would similarly benefit from the suppressors’ stealth.
A horizontal line of nickel-sized holes was punched through the container’s side. Streams of water leaked through them. Griff fired off a burst, further holing the container. More water came squirting out from the freshly made bullet holes.
Griff cradled the SMG, smiling affectionately down at it. “This is one sweet piece!”
Rowdy said, “Hold your fire bro, I want to see something.” He crossed to the container, skirting the growing circle of water puddling on the floor from the bullet holes. He looked inside. “It’s filled with ice. Maybe they used it to cool their beer.”
Griff said, “Any brewskis in it?”
“Nope.”
“Who gives a shit then?”
Jack was mulling over something that had been puzzling him, the presence on the long table of a handful of strips of white cloth. He picked one up. It was four inches high and about eight inches long. Its ends featured vertical strips of some Velcro-like material. They made a circular band when fastened together. He said, “What’s this, Pettibone?”
Pettibone said, “I dunno.”
“You’re alive because you’re useful. I’m getting the feeling you’re not useful anymore.”
“What’s the difference? You’re just gonna kill me anyway.”
“You want it now? Fine. Hey, Griff—”
Pettibone said quickly, “Wait, wait! I just remembered what they’re for. They’re armbands. All the Action team is wearing them.”
“It’s a recognition symbol.”
“Yeah. The insiders at the estate will be wearing them, too. That way there won’t be any screwups if they cross paths during the Action.”
Griff sidled over to Pettibone and stuck the muzzle of the silencer-equipped SMG against the underside of the other’s chin, causing him to tilt his head back. Griff said, “So you ‘just remembered,’ huh?”
Pettibone said tightly, “I–I forgot…”
Jack said, “How many insiders are there?”
Pettibone said, “I don’t know— ” He must have seen something he didn’t like in Jack’s face because he blurted out, “I don’t! That’s Reb’s business and he don’t like nobody sticking their nose into it!”
Griff said, “Oh yeah? We’re gonna jump into Reb’s business with both feet and see how he likes that.”
Pettibone gulped. He had trouble talking with Griff’s weapon pressing the underside of his chin but he struggled to get his message across. “Only Reb knows who’s on the inside. That’s the reason for the white armbands, anybody wearing one is with us and not to be harmed.”
Jack said, “You’re going along, Pettibone, so whatever happens to us will happen to you first. Keeping that in mind, is there anything else you forgot to tell us?”
“That’s all of it, I swear!”
“You’d better be damned sure about that.”
“No, that’s it, that’s all!”
“Okay, you get to breathe awhile longer. Griff…”
Griff shouted, “Bang bang!” laughing as Pettibone flinched. He lowered the weapon to his side but kept giving Pettibone evil looks. Jack picked up one of the white cloth strips, said, “Which arm?”
Pettibone said, “Either one, it don’t matter.” Jack’s hesitation prompted Pettibone to add, “I ain’t lying!”
Jack fixed the white cloth around his left biceps, fastening it in place with the adhesive strips. He said to the bikers, “Might as well. We can’t afford to overlook anything that gives us a slight edge.”
Griff and Rowdy donned the white armbands. Jack put one around Pettibone’s upper arm, said, “We don’t want his buddies to get the idea that everything’s not going according to plan.”
He emptied the shotgun shells from his right side jacket pocket, replacing them with extra clips for the SMG. Rowdy said, “You ain’t bringing the scattergun?”
Jack said, “I don’t know if we want shotguns blasting around explosives and gas grenades. The machine pistol’s better suited for the work.”
“I’m bringing both. The riot gun’ll be handy in case we gotta knock down any doors.”
“Use it as a last resort. We’re not looking to advertise our presence.”
“Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
Rowdy grabbed some of the shotgun shells and stuffed them into his pants pockets. There were plenty of flashlights around, heavy-duty baton models. Jack helped himself to one. “We’ll need these, too.”
Rowdy said, “You and Griff take ’em. I’ll carry the shotgun in one hand and the machine gun in the other.”
Jack and Griff tried out the flashlights to make sure they worked. Griff shone the powerful beam in Pettibone’s face, causing the other to squint and turn away. Griff said, “I’m watching you.”
Jack said, “Let’s go.” He, the bikers, and their prisoner crossed to the door. Rowdy said to Griff, “We can come back for the other two machine guns later.”
They all exited, the kitchen door putting them on the short, north side of the long house.
The moon was behind a mountain peak and thick darkness lay on the tiny park. Jack and Griff switched on their flashlights. Jack told Pettibone, “Lead on.”
Pettibone said, “This way.” He rounded the northwest corner to go behind the back of the building, closely followed by the others. A well-worn footpath ran south. The group passed the end of the building and kept on going, crossing a weedy field whose west edge was bordered by thickets of brush. Beyond them a rock wall thrust up for hundreds of feet, part of the mid-slopes of Thunder Mountain.
The path trailed south for a hundred yards leaving the Winnetou campgrounds behind. Ahead rose a rocky
