WALKABOUT 2 - The Back of Beyond (Part 17)

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91

I haven’t been a writer for long, and I haven’t any best sellers on the bookshelves yet. Okay, I haven’t even finished the outline of my first draft. But, I have to tell you, something changes within you when you look at the world through a novelist’s eye. A moment before, I was all negative. I was exhausted, my body urging me to call it quits. Suddenly, with that one question, ‘What would Baron Wilder do?’ a floodgate opened and ideas began pouring into my mind.

With a gun and one bullet, Baron Wilder could crash the party, rescue the girl - there’s always a girl in those stories - put a gun to the head of Dexter Flynn, and take him outside to the airplane. Crank up the turbine engine and fly away. Deal with Flynn one on one, man to man. Or, just shoot him.

Or he could walk in, shoot Flynn, bluff his way out of the building. It’s a revolver, so the bad guys don’t know the gun is empty after only one shot. A semi-automatic would be a different story—the slide would lock in the open position—but like I said, it’s a revolver. Once outside, he could get in the plane and fly away, alone. Oh, and he would also save the girl before he did all that other stuff. 

Or he could go out back to the turboprop, start the engine, point it toward the hangar, give it full throttle and bail out. Watch the explosion from a safe distance. Rescue the girl  and enjoy her company for a while like 007 before going on to his next adventure.

Those all were good options for a fictional story, but I was holding out for something that didn’t have so many flaws. Something based in reality.

In the real world, the first scenario could end up with the hero (that would be me, in the real world, not Baron Wilder) meeting resistance from Flynn and his associates. I could end up dead, or subject to another beating. Or both, but not in that order.

In the second scenario, I would probably have a forty percent chance of shooting Flynn and somewhere between a zero and two percent chance of coming out alive. Given enough time, I could write an escape for Baron Wilder, but in reality I would not have the luxury of time to come up with an exit strategy for myself.

The third plan I liked, but in the real world there was a good chance Flynn would not be in the path of the airplane when it crashed through the building.

So, now I had to ask myself two more questions.

Is getting Flynn really that important? And is it worth risking my life?

Without a doubt, yes. I couldn’t care less about the beating and the fact they had tried to kill me. That was the game they played, and the game I walked into when I assumed Jared Mulligan’s identity. But Flynn had ordered my daughter to be kidnapped. Traumatized. And, who knew what else? I wanted to believe she was alive and well, at home, reunited with her mother by now. That her uncle, the sheriff, had received my email and rescued her. I figured there was a high probability of that having already happened. But yeah, the part of me who is still Tyler Hamilton wanted to get Flynn. End him. That left only one remaining question:

What would Jared Mulligan do? Correction. This was personal. What will Ty Hamilton do?

92 

There was nothing between the spot where I lurked and where the airplane was parked. I would have to move quickly. After the better part of a minute, I decided it was safe. Just as I began to move, the back door of the hangar opened. I dropped to my knees and crawled back behind the oil drum. There in the doorframe stood Dexter Flynn, no more than twenty feet away, holding a bag in his right hand. I brought the revolver up using the top of the drum to steady my aim.

A couple more bikers came out to join Flynn, and along with them, a couple of scantily-clad women. “Come on back inside, Dex,” one of the women purred. “The party’s just getting started.” She put her arms around him, ruining any chance I had of a shot.

Flynn tilted his head back, finished off the last of his beer, then tossed the bottle onto a pile of hundreds of others. He looked up at the sky. “Looks like good flyin’ weather,” he said.

“You won’t be goin’ back tonight, will you Dexter?” one of the bikers said. “You’re half shit-faced.”

“Half shit-faced ain’t shit-faced,” Flynn said. “I’ll go when I want and where I want.”

Apparently, they all knew better than to argue with Flynn.

“Reckon I’ll stay for one more round before I fly to Sydney. Go on back in, all of you,” he said. “I’ll be along.”

One by one, the bikers and their women filed through the doorway, back to the party raging on inside. All but one.

“Hell of a day, Dex,” he said.

“Tell me about it, Sparky.” Flynn shook his head. “Billy Thorn. Peter. Archer. All gone. No one knows where Simone went after what happened with Peter.”

“She’ll turn up. She always does.”

Flynn nodded, sighed heavily. “I suppose. But you know, the one that hurt the most was Jocko. Betrayin’ me like he did.”

“When the time comes, you’ll do what you have to do, Dex. He could have made a fortune on that shipment, then use it to recruit more muscle, arm them to the teeth, and take over your club. Thank God it didn’t happen.”

Flynn put a hand on Sparky’s shoulder. “Not my club, Sparky. Our club. Reckon Jocko came to his senses. The boys were ready for him. I flew them up to Darwin to ride in the truck with the shipment. Imagine Jocko’s surprise if he’d opened the door to a half-dozen guns pointed at him. Maybe Jocko’ll come crawlin’ back. Maybe Bruce will decide if we let him back in. We’ll worry about that another day. Now go on in there, get yourself a woman and another beer. I’ll be along directly.”

Flynn walked over to the airplane, the contents of the bag clinking against one another. He opened the cockpit door and set the bag inside, then closed it. He walked around to the front of the airplane and turned his back to me, stood feet a little more than shoulder width apart, and proceeded to take a leak, leaning forward with one hand resting on the prop spinner. I had a clear line of fire, but the distance was great enough I didn’t like my odds of success.

I watched as Flynn did a quick and dirty version of a walk-around preflight inspection, checking the flight controls, kicking the tires, but not much more. Certainly not enough to be adequate, but apparently good enough for him, in his inebriated state. I didn’t need to shoot him, much as I wanted to.

Once Flynn went back inside. I hustled over to the plane, opened the door to the cockpit, and lowered the air stairs. I opened the bag, and was glad to see several bottles of beer.

I took a couple, folded the stairs back up and closed the cockpit door. Quickly, I moved around behind the airplane and opened one of the beers.

I swished the beer around in my mouth, savoring it before swallowing. I took another long swig, swallowed most of it, but kept a bit in my mouth. I scooped up a handful of dirt in one hand, and spit the beer into it. I had to repeat the process a couple more times, spitting more beer into my hand until the texture of the dirt was similar to play dough.

Moving to the trailing edge of the left wing, I packed the dirt into the fuel vent, hustled around to the other side of the plane, and packed the right side fuel vent. “That ought to do it,” I said under my breath. “My work here is done.” There was no need for me to stay.

93

I retraced my path to my position behind the boat. I would take a five-minute rest, then make my way back to the highway. From there, I had no clue what to do. 

The two men by the panel truck were now drinking beer, still talking. They were so involved in their conversation, neither of them noticed the movement. Two men, staying in the shadows, moved in quickly. It was over in three seconds, and without a sound. Immediately, a half-dozen more men emerged from the shadows.

The best plans are often the simplest. Jocko, at Simone’s suggestion, held back. He and his men allowed the shipment of cocaine to reach its destination of Coober Pedy. During the entire trip, Flynn and his supporters were on high alert. By the time they arrived in Coober Pedy, they were exhausted, drained physically, emotionally, and mentally.

The relief of having made it all the way to the hangout in Coober Pedy resulted in a dropping of their guard. Flynn posted only two men outside, while the rest went indoors to party.

Jocko and his half dozen supporters arrived just after dark, parking their motorcycles a mile away from the hangar behind the collapsing ruins of a machine shed, and proceeding the rest of the way on foot. The waiting would be the hard part. Let Flynn and the rest of them get drunk, let them get drowsy. Then attack.

With speed and efficiency, Jocko and his men rushed the hangar. Breaking windows, tossing Molotov cocktails inside. Poking the barrels of AK-47’s into the building and firing indiscriminately.

It was mayhem. People came running outside, into a hail of gunfire. Some of the bikers had the presence of mind to return fire. Others were mowed down in their tracks. One of the attacking group started the truck and began driving away. A biker with a shotgun fired three rounds into the cab, dropped the shotgun and resumed firing with a handgun. One or more of his shots hit his target. The truck careened out of control, went up an embankment, and flipped over on its side. I anticipated an explosion and fireball, but it never happened. The truck sat there, engine still running, wheels spinning as the gun battle raged on. It was right about then I decided I didn’t need a full five minutes of rest, and got up to leave. From behind the hangar, I heard the unmistakable sound of a turbine engine spooling up as I walked away at a rather slow pace, putting distance between the danger and me, while taking care not to slip and fall into one of the many opal mine shafts. From experience I knew that would be a horrible end. I watched the turboprop slip the surly bonds of earth and climb to an altitude of about a thousand feet before its engine flamed out.