The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Devouring Storm, Part 5 of 6

Adrial Nordholm’s deadly game continues, pushing his former mentor’s entomological skills to the test, with Mickey Malloy stuck in the middle. In a bug-versus-bug fight, his only choice is to wait and watch.

Until Only Roaches Remain is available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, and as a DRM-free ebook.

This is Part 5 of The Case of the Devouring Storm. To avoid spoilers, check out Parts 1, 2, 3, and 4 first.

Content warnings: Mild swearing, alcohol use, death, violence, gun violence, animal violence, gore, Nazis.

MONDAY NIGHT, MAY 3, 1943
IOWAY TRIBAL POST OFFICE
WHITE CLOUD, KANSAS

The three Calakmul jaguar termites sniffed the dry air. Their serrated mandibles ground together, powerful enough to crunch bone and render limestone to dust. With their segmented legs fully extended, they stood as high as Mickey's hip, though the saw-toothed ridges atop their carapaces added another two inches. Their thick exoskeletons had a dappling of dull gold and shining black spots, giving their name meaning.

“My word,” Evenstad gasped, staring in awe at the massive bugs. “Artyom, get the camera!”

“Belay that, Artie!” Mick shouted. “Get these things out of here!”

Artyom froze in place, unsure of whether he was more afraid of Mick's barbarous wrath or Evenstad's disappointment, ignoring the fact that a trio of flesh-devouring monsters stood just yards away.

“Agent Malloy, this species has never before been photographed or publicly documented. To refrain from doing so would be a crime against science!”

“Doc, if we wait around, science is going to do a crime against us,” Mickey yelled. “Now I know you got something for these things. What is it?”

“I suppose that while we might be published posthumously, we certainly cannot write in that manner,” Evenstad grumbled. “Artyom, employ disincentive system twelve, please.”

“Yes, doctor,” Artyom said, then pulled a stubby pistol out of the inner pocket of his lab coat and aimed it at the sniffing termites.

“I could've done that,” Mickey muttered.

Artyom rolled his eyes, then fired. The pistol bucked, launching a crimson flare into the midst of the termites. The nearest reared and scuttled a few steps back, clicking and hissing angrily.

“You see, Agent Malloy,” Evenstad said, “Termites will panic at the sight of fire. They will soon be routed, to be dealt with at our leisure.”

Mickey watched the massive bugs for a second. They scuttled a safe distance the flicking flare, sniffing cautiously at its noxious fumes. After a moment, one stepped back up to it, inspecting it like a mutt who’d happened upon roadkill. The red flickers illuminated the thing’s spiked exoskeleton and gnashing mandibles. Mickey realized what the termites were missing at the same time the doctor did:

“Artyom,” Evenstad whispered, “Evidently Adrial willfully withheld pertinent anatomical information from his limited treatise on this species.”

“They don't have any eyes,” Mickey said.

The things wouldn’t run at the sight of fire when they couldn't see anything at all.

“Blind cave termites!” Artyom yelped. A trickle of panic sweat dripped off his forehead.

The termites hissed in unison. They smelled their dinner through the flare’s chemical smoke and charged.

Mickey didn't wait for Evenstad's backup plan. He leveled his revolver and plugged the closest twice in its broad forehead. The lead thumped against the first bug’s thick exoskeleton. It was like shooting a rock. The thing froze in place, dazed like he’d rung its bell, but stayed on its feet.

Mick emptied his revolver, sending another termite’s leg went flying. Its former owner ignored the injury, hungrier than it was hurt. It charged past its stunned comrade, straight for the open door.

“What do we do?” Artyom shrieked, hitting a high note no grown man would admit to having access to.

“Shut the damn door!” Mickey ordered. He struggled to get his last six rounds into his revolver. Artyom dashed past and slammed the door shut. An instant later the first termite barreled into it hard enough to shake the glass in the windows.

The two creatures pounded against the door over and over, challenging the old wood to hold. Mick joined Artyom, pressing his broad back against the door, bracing it against them. He could hear nails snapping, dry fibers separating, boards cracking under the assault.

“So now what do we do?” Mickey shouted. “I may as well have been throwing cotton balls at 'em!”

The first termite recovered and joined in. Each shuddering hit felt like it went straight through the wood and into Mick's aching spine.

“Artyom, what about disincentive system one?” the doctor asked.

“The dynamos won't charge in time!” the grad student shouted.

“System four?”

“The gas would suffocate us as well!”

“System five?”

“They're blind already, doctor, all it would do would be to...” Artyom trailed off.

“Would be to coat their sensilla,” Evenstad concluded for him. Artyom dashed to their luggage and rummaged around in an open crate.

“What the hell,” Mick grunted, suddenly holding the door on his own. He could hear their mandibles gnawing into the wood.

“Tam!” Aryom said as he extracted a corked beaker. Thick green slime shifted within as he scrambled back to Mick’s side.

“Inspector, you'll have to splash this across their antennae. It will flare their sensilla,” Evenstad said.

“So what?” Mickey growled. Another hit against the door, another nail snapping.

“Concentrated honeybee venom will leave them unable to smell us, and thus, hunt us,” Evenstad explained slowly, “We will be able to escape.”

Another termite slammed into Mickey's back, almost knocking him to his knees.

“Give me that goop,” Mick growled. He snatched the beaker out of Artyom's shaking hands. The cork came out with a pop. “On three, boys.”

Mickey counted down silently, then ripped the door open and reeled with back the beaker. Before it could leave his hand a termite slammed through, shattering the open door and hitting Mick square in the gut with its armored head. He fell onto his back, losing his revolver and the venom. The beaker tumbled from his fingers, arcing over the two closest termites and smashing into the face of the third. Thick bee venom splashed onto its head, burning into its antennae to leave the thing hissing and stumbling in the middle of the street.

The termite that had hit Mickey pounced on top of him, a mass of furious chitin plates and uncompromising muscle packed behind a set of razor jaws. He kicked and shoved it back, only to have it surge forward again, gnashing at his stomach to get at his guts. Its scrabbling claws shredded his slacks to ribbons and scratched deep into his thighs. Blood welled up, the iron scent inciting the blind predator even further. It bit down on Mick's left hip with a hard crunch, then stopped its assault and smacked its heavy head against the floor.

The termite staggered back, a shining object lodged in its mouth. Mick hopped to his feet, ready to bolt during the unexpected reprieve. The termite shook its wide head, hoping to dislodge whatever was choking it. A drip of liquid splashed out onto Mickey's chest. Mick knew that burning stink anywhere: the bug was choking on his flask.

Mick patted his pockets for his matches but only felt bare skin. His pockets, as well as most of his pants, were gone, ribbons held up by a belt. Luckily, he and Artyom were on the same page.

The Russian rushed forward with his bunsen burner's flint lighter in hand. He shoved it into the termite's wedged-open jaws and sparked it off. The leaking bourbon ignited inside the flailing termite's head. The creature reared up, slashing Artyom’s arm and knocking him away.

It hissed like a kettle and ran out the door. Artyom rolled around, desperate to put out the flames dancing on the back of his bleeding, burned arm.

“Good work, kid,” Mick yelled.

“Help the doctor!” Artyom shouted back. Mick had forgotten about the other termite.

It had gotten past him and was on top of Evenstad, struggling to get its jaws around his wrinkled neck. The old man had managed to shove his cane halfway down its throat and was barely holding it back. Mick barreled over and put a steel-toe boot into the termite’s thorax.

His kick knocked the termite over, it was lighter than it looked, but it was back on its feet in a flash. It shook its head, trying to dislodge Evenstad's cane from its mouth.

Mick couldn't give it that chance. He leaned back and punted the end of the cane as hard as he could. The kick drove the metal-tipped shaft all the way into the termite's brain ‘til it hit the thick exoskeleton inside the back of its head. The termite shuddered, then collapsed.

“Holy hell,” Mick sighed. He dropped flat on his rear. He had never wanted a cigarette more.

“Inspector,” Evenstad gasped. Mick looked back. The doctor was pointing out the door. The enraged howl of the third, forgotten termite pierced the air. The thing had recovered from the bee venom, and its vinegar was up.

“Always something,” Mickey muttered. He rolled on his belly and found his lost pistol. The termite was already scuttling toward the open door. Mick sent out all six rounds again, plugging the termite three times in its wide head. The five-legged insect stumbled, hissed, and recovered in seconds. Mick was out of bullets and the termite was even angrier.

Hooves thundered against the hard-packed road. The termite didn't have time to react before the steel-shod feet of Lewison's stallion came stomping down on its back. Not even the monstrous bug's bullet-proof armor could handle the full weight of a warhorse hammering down on it. The termite shattered like a dropped egg, spraying Lewison and his steed with musky innards.

The bug hissed once, then was silenced by a blast from Lewison's shotgun.

“The cavalry!” Mick hooted. Lewison scowled at him.

The Indian agent scanned the area. The termite with the fiery mouthful had made it about twenty yards down the road before the flames claimed it. Behind Lewison, Nordholm's bug truck rumbled to life. He spun around in the saddle, settling his aim on the windshield.

“Congratulations, doc!” Walsh yelled from the passenger seat of the truck. “You aren't as rusty as Doctor N. expected!”

“Can he not congratulate me himself?” Evenstad shouted back. The doctor was standing in the door, using Artyom's arm for support. He whispered something in Artyom's ear and leaned against the deformed door frame while his grad student slipped back inside.

“That's not how we play this game!” Walsh taunted.

“You're not going anywhere, bud,” Lewison shouted. Walsh grinned and rolled his window almost all the way up. Lewison ordered them again: “Turn off the engine and step out of the car.”

A few things happened at once, faster than Mick could've stopped any of them in his bloody, pantsless condition:

Walsh chuckled, then pulled the pin on a canister grenade and shoved it through the crack in the window.

Lewison pulled the trigger. Buckshot spider-webbed the armored glass inches from Walsh's face, but none got through.

Walsh's getaway driver hit the gas.

Artyom dashed from behind Mickey and chucked a glass vial at the truck. It shattered against the tailgate, leaving a smear of a pungent, greenish liquid.

The truck peeled out, spraying everyone with dirt and gravel, startling Lewison's horse and throwing off his second shot.

The canister grenade bounced twice before it settled on the ground. Mickey could clearly see the black and white zig-zags painted on the side.

“Get behind something!” he shouted. He scooped up Evenstad, grabbed Artyom by his collar, and dragged the pair inside. Lewison was a second slower to react, and the grenade went off a scant few yards away from him.

Mickey knew all about the Krauts' spinnennetz grenades, though he'd never seen one go off up close. As he blocked the two smaller men from the blast with his broad back, he couldn't help but note the appropriateness of the spiderweb weapon in their current circumstance.

The grenade blew with a dull thump. Not an explosion or ignition, but the quick release of pressurized gas. The big picture-frame windows of the post office didn't even rattle. Mickey waited a moment before he let the two scientists up. A few wisps of spider silk were stuck to the floor around them, but the majority of the blast had not reached the post office. Everyone was whole.

He eased himself to his knees and helped Evenstad off the dusty floor. The doctor's lab coat was hopelessly stained with termite juices and dirt, and a small trickle of blood dripped from the his red nose. Once on his feet, the old man gave Mick a bright smile.

“Excellent, Inspector Malloy, simply excellent,” he said while he adjusted his cracked glasses. “It has been ages since I have felt such exhilaration.”

Artyom limped over, his burned hand clutched tight against his stomach. He handed the doctor a set of backup glasses, a set somehow even wider and thicker than the broken ones.

“And quick thinking from you as well, Artyom,” Evenstad added before swapping out his spectacles.

“Good work, kid,” Mick said, “You saved my bacon.”

Artyom beamed at the compliments, then went to work sorting through the doctor's equipment.

“Help?” Lewison called from outside.

“Oh crap, the cavalry,” Mickey said. He stepped into the street and surveyed the damage.

The spinnennetz grenade may not have gone off with a shattering blast, but within its radius it had done its job. Thousands of yards of chemically-toughened spider silk coated every surface within fifty feet of the blast point. The stuff was stronger than steel. It blocked the entire road and had bound Evenstad's Office car to the ground. It would takes days to clean it all up, days longer than they had. Walsh and his truck had already disappeared into the night.

In the middle of it all, Little Thunder Lewison sat glued to his saddle, suspended six inches off the ground along with his horse by hundreds of strands that dangled them from the buildings of White Cloud.

They were both remarkably calm. Lewison sighed, which was about the extent of the range of motion the taut spiderwebs allowed. His horse snorted in frustration.

Mick chuckled, happy to find them unharmed. He picked his way through the silken maze, getting as close to the ensnared pair as he could.

“Thanks for the rescue, kid,” Mick said.

“No problem, old-timer, that's two you owe me.”

“You get through to Marge?”

“She told me to tell you that the brothers are on the way with Chickenhawks, whatever that means, and you should activate your beacon and keep working.”

“Thanks,” Mick said. “Mind hanging around for a while?”

“Oh, so you're Groucho Marx now,” Lewison said sarcastically. He tried to shake his head but the webbing held so tight that he couldn't even manage that little amount of movement. The horse snorted.

Mickey stepped up and sniffed the air. Something foul was wafting from where Lewison was trussed up.

“What is that stink?” Mick asked.

“I think it was that bug we squished,” Lewison said. “It juiced me.”

Mick chuckled again. The agent was covered in termite entrails and stinking to high heaven. It was like he'd taken a bath in rotten eggs and wet wood.

“Don't go laughing at me when you're running around in your bloomers, Malloy,” Lewison said. Mickey looked down. He'd forgotten that the termite had flayed his pants. The two of them laughed, which unbound something and they laughed harder. They laughed ‘til it hurt and both of them were crying. Mick held his ribs. The cuts on his legs were starting to sting.

“So get me down already,” Lewison said after a moment.

“This stuff is stronger than steel,” Mick said. He plucked a strand that ran from Lewison's face to the wall of the general store. The silk twanged like the bass string on an old guitar and Lewison flinched in discomfort. “There ain't any way to cut it 'til my friends get here. Besides, we aren't in any kind of rush. The bad guys hoofed it.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Evenstad said. He stepped out into the street with Artyom, who had a pressurized seltzer bottle in each hand and a cardboard box in his arms. Artyom set down the box and sprayed Lewison and his horse with the bottles, melting the spider silk like it was rock candy.

Evenstad explained: “The treated Nephila venatiocanus webbing was the first of Adrial's creations that the Office tasked me to counter. Once my students analyzed the dog-hunting spider's silk and reverse-engineered the Germans' strengthening process, finding a counter-agent was quite simple.”

In less than a minute, Lewison and his termite-slaying horse were freed. Mick watched the beast warily, but he'd decided during the scrap that there were much worse things out there than those with four legs. That particular horse had earned itself a pass.

“So how are we going to find your old college buddy, doc?” Mick asked once enough of the webbing was cleared away to walk down the street. Evenstad simply smiled.

“Perhaps Artyom would like to answer that,” he said.

“Thank you, doctor. Before the truck left, I tagged it with a synthetic hormone derived from Photuris pennsylvanica. The little ones will guide our way.” Before Mick could ask what in the hell that meant, Artyom open the box and a swarm of lightning bugs flew out, blinking and ecstatic to be in the open air. They circled for a moment, then all flew south, the direction the truck had escaped to.

“They will light our way, inspector,” Evenstad said.

Mick smirked while he watched the bobbing trail of fireflies that extended into the night. It was a peaceful moment. He sighed and let the temporary calm provided by the mesmerizing lights last a bit longer before allowing it to break under the weight of the task ahead.

“Well then,” he said, then grabbed one of the silk-melting seltzer bottles. He sprayed himself a path to the trunk of Evenstad's car and popped it open. He shoved aside a pole net and raccoon trap and grabbed a small device, a black box no larger than a deck of cards. He engaged its only feature, a single switch, which illuminated a green light on top of it. It was an Office radio transponder, a gadget that would allow his comrades to track him down using a tuned-in receiver. The Lane brothers were standing by in Kansas City. The signal would get them moving.

He slipped the transponder into his breast pocket and reached for the important things.

Mickey pulled his black brawling armor out; its thick padded vest and shoulder pads were enough to stop knives and some bullets. His heavy sap gloves came next; they gave his punches extra juice, courtesy of a couple pounds of powdered lead sewn over the knuckles. He reloaded his .38 snub nose slipped it into its hold-out holster on his right ankle, mirroring the switchblade he kept on his left. He'd upgraded his black bandanna since his time harrowing street toughs in Tampa. The new one was a treated fabric, specially designed by the Office to filter out airborne chemicals. He tied it around his neck, close by in case he needed it in a hurry. The leather football helmet went on last, covering the thinning gray hair and scars trenched into his wrinkled scalp. Only when he was fully suited up did he reach for his club.

His club had once been a chair leg. It was stronger, heavier, longer. Blood had soaked into its oaken grains, and the sweat of battle into its worn grip. The club felt good, it felt right in its hand.

He swung it once, remembering its weight, recalling the unique reverberation that rattled through its fibers wherever it bounced off bone. He was ready. He looked up to find Evenstad, Lewison, and Artyom staring.

“What?” he snapped at Lewison, “You don't have war paint to put on?”

“We don't wear that,” Lewison responded, though without the heat Mick expected. The younger man paused for a moment, then asked: “Do white men not wear pants to war?”

Mick looked down. He'd forgotten about his shredded pants again. His bloody, knobby knees looked especially pale in moonlight.

“Okay, well then,” Mickey grunted. He looked around, not finding any spare pants lying within reach. “You boys go and gear up. Once I find some slacks, I got Nazis to hurt and y’all are coming with me.”

TUESDAY EVENING, MARCH 9, 1943
LODGE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS, TAHITI PARK
SARASOTA, FLORIDA

The Billy Club Bastard stood still, watching the flames claw their way up the walls of the fascist meeting hall. Smoke was gathering in the rafters. He could taste it through his bandana. The fabric was treated to withstand nerve gas; if smoke was getting through, it meant his time was running out.

“I don’t got all day, handsome,” the Bastard growled. The Gray Man stood between him and the only exit, looking even uglier than the last time they’d bumped heads.

“I should let this place collapse on the both of us,” the Gray Man snarled, flames glistening off the chunks of metal encrusting his face. He waved his combat knife around, showing off the burning building. “Another sixteen weeks of planning, ruined.”

“My pleasure, buddy,” the Bastard said. He shook his right hand, trying to get some feeling back into it. He had discovered the solid metal in the Nazi’s jaw with an attempted haymaker.

“Did you hurt yourself?” the Gray Man asked. He tried to sneer, but half his face was frozen under sawed-down cold weld.

“Don’t worry about me,” the Bastard said. He lifted his club and pointed it at the Nazi. “But I am going to have to move you.”

A rafter groaned and broke, slamming into the stage behind the Bastard. Smoke and sparks washed over him, whipping his trench coat. The Nazi, American, and Legion flags went up with a whoosh.

“We will all die here,” the Gray Man promised.

“‘All?’” the Bastard asked. He looked around. They were alone.

“Be quiet and burn.”

It was one thing to try and kill him, the Bastard expected no less of a Nazi. It was a whole other thing to try to set up an assassination plot in his backyard. Lighting up this glorified barn was just a stop on the Bastard’s way through town. He hadn’t expected to find a Brotherhood agent there.

The Office had put together more intel on those Brotherhood jokers since he’d first encountered the Gray Man in South Carolina. They were trained not to feel fear, surgically numbed so they didn’t feel pain, conditioned to kill mercilessly and spread their foul gospel everywhere they went. In fact, little cults popped up wherever they spent any amount of time. They called their followers brüderchen, ‘little brothers.’

“Let’s just wrap this up,” the Bastard said. The barn was on the overgrown back lot of an old church in the middle of an old neighborhood. The Legion would be there soon, probably quicker than the fire brigade.

“Yes, and so we shall,” the Gray Man snarled. His knife danced faster in his hands.

The cases of film reels caught fire and roared upward in nitrogen jets. LP’s by the hundred plastered with Father Coughlin’s smirking face had already melted from the heat, spreading pools of black shellac across the floor. Hundreds of pounds of pamphlets were smoldering. It was enough bullshit Nazi propaganda to wallpaper half the state.

The Abwehr was on a recruiting drive and the Bastard had just so happened to kick in their door when the head cheerleader was home.

The Gray Man lunged, knife leading the way. The Bastard was a rhinoceros, but if he was about to get stuck he could move like a hummingbird. He danced around the blade, then swung his club. The Gray Man ducked under it and past it. His blade split Mickey’s padded vest in a half-dozen places. The Bastard’s club sank into the Gray Man’s shoulder and bicep. They exchanged blow after blow, neither going down.

The Bastard landed a steel-toed kick that folded the Gray Man’s ankle beneath him. The Nazi stumbled, giving the big man some room to breathe. It was hotter than the devil’s armpit and he was pouring sweat. His bandana was soaked and every sucking inhalation felt like he was trying to breathe inside a coffee pot.

“You slow,” the Gray Man wheezed. One of the ingots in his cheek was seeping red. He shoved himself from the floor only to fall again when his bad ankle collapsed beneath him.

“Look who’s talking,” the Bastard huffed. He went to wipe the sweat from his eyes only to find his glove soaked in his own blood. The Nazi had gotten him somewhere.

The building groaned around them. The fire had started in on the roof. The Bastard had expected a thermite grenade to make quick work of the propaganda warehouse, but it was really trucking, spreading the flames a lot quicker than he’d anticipated.

"Why don’t you drop the knife, I’ll drag you on out of here,” the Bastard offered.

“I can walk, I can kill,” the Gray Man hissed from the floor. His ankle was twisted beneath him.

“Sure, buddy.”

The Bastard circled around the fallen Nazi, out of his reach but as far from the flames as he could manage. The Gray Man slashed impotently at him. The Bastard kept his club between in case the kraut got of a mind to throw the knife.

“Stop!” the Gray Man shouted.

“I got places to be,” the Bastard replied. He made his way to the kicked-in door. The stomach-turning crunch of wet bone froze him in place.

“I told you to stop!” The Gray Man was standing. His ruined ankle was folded over and he was walking on his shin bone like a peg leg. He was heaving. Though he didn’t register the pain, his body knew what was happening and was revolting against him.

“Buddy, that is nasty,” was all the Bastard could manage.

“I will gut you,” the Gray Man promised. The knife wobbled in his grip.

“Every one of you guys says that,” the Bastard replied. That particular threat was getting real old.

The Gray Man raised his blade right as the roof gave up the ghost. He looked up and watched it come. The Bastard dove out the door. Charred joists slammed down, reducing the Gray Man to pulp. His furious persistence did not slow their collapse. They had been put up there by Nazis, so it was in their nature to fall.

The Gray Man died in whoosh of flame and a puff of smoke. Right back to Hell or whatever bespoke bullshit the Abwehr had cooked up to keep their dogs barking.

The Bastard hooked his club onto his belt, pawed at the embers sizzling on his coat, then took off. The fire brigade’s sirens were close, which meant the late Gray Man’s little brothers were closer.

He hopped a stream at the edge of the church lot. The movement jostled his arm, shooting pain deep into his bones. The cut was deeper than he’d thought. Blood oozed as he lurched through yards, between pastel-painted houses.

Mosquitos buzzed after him, eager for a sip of the good stuff.

TUESDAY MORNING, MAY 4, 1943
FORMER SITE OF THE BOXHEAD QUARTZITE MINE
SOUTH OF LANCASTER, KANSAS

Mick followed the trail of fireflies for over an hour. Chasing soft lights into country darkness was soothing, almost making Mickey forget what he was headed toward. Lewison sat shotgun, covering the right side with his Browning Auto5.

Evenstad and Artyom were holed up in the back seat, babbling away quiet enough that Mickey couldn't hear them, not that he could've deciphered any of their science-talk anyway. They were frantically mixing chemicals back there, preparing for whatever Evenstad thought Nordholm might have waiting.

Mickey didn't speak. Not for fear, but for discomfort. He'd been dressed in his day clothes too long and had forgotten what it felt like to not be naked. The hard corners of his club had jammed into the soft meat of his thigh. His armor was tight in awkward places, and the jeans he'd borrowed from the general store were riding up like nobody's business.

The old detective grunted. Office work was making him soft. Too many meetings, not enough violent assaults. Seemed like every other assignment was training, or a hearing, an interrogation or a mangey dog. Lord, that club had felt good in his hand. He hadn't realized how eager he was to get back into the midnight vigilante game.

The fireflies led them down a series of well-traveled dirt roads, twisting and turning through three counties before coming upon the Boxhead Quartzite Mine.

The mine was somewhere ahead, a pit near a quarter of a mile across that had been scooped out to get some rock whose best use was to crush up for railroad ballast.

“Kansas,” Mick muttered, shaking his head. The biggest landmark in the region was an abandoned hole, notable for not having gravel in it.

“What's that?” Lewison asked.

“Nothing. How far out are we?” Mick asked.

“From the mine? A mile, maybe more.”

Mick flicked off the headlamps and slowed the Office sedan to a halt, then said: “Anywhere else they could be going?”

“This road was built for the mine,” Lewison confirmed.

Mickey twisted around in the seat to look at the crafty scientists behind him.

“We're on foot from here, boys,” he said.

“Then I am afraid we will need some assistance with our equipment, inspector,” Evenstad replied.

“Of course you do,” Mick muttered. Despite his begrudging attitude, he knew that whatever Evenstad had up his sleeve would be the difference between him getting eaten by grasshoppers and surviving the night.

Mickey stepped out of the car and opened the door for Evenstad, getting rewarded with a pair of powder-filled paper sacks for his trouble. They must have weighed twenty pounds each.

“What is all this?” Mick asked. His sense of balance wasn't the best on good days, and after getting mauled by termites and choked out by cockroaches, today hadn't been one of his better ones.

“Powdered ispaghula fiber infused with concentrated olfactory aggregation ecto-hormones derived from samples secured this morning,” Evenstad answered. Mick didn't bother asking if he was expected to know what that meant, he just looked at Lewison and the two lawmen shrugged in unison.

“Come, come, gentlemen, there is no time to waste,” Evenstad said, and began tottering down the dirt road, using an umbrella in place of his broken cane.

“Better lead the way, kid,” Mick said to Lewison over his payload. “Don't want the old man to wander through the front gate.”

“We'll work our way around, hit 'em from the flank,” Lewison said.

“Sounds like a plan,” Mick said. “After you.”

Lewison brought his shotgun to his shoulder and walked off the right side of the road into an unused field.

“Keep your heads down and your traps shut,” Lewison said. Mickey liked the kid's gumption.

The four men walked for thirty-five minutes, picking their way through the tall grass as quietly as possible. Mick didn’t put it past the krauts to lay out landmines, and looking out for them slowed them further. The sliver of moon was miserly with its light, making their sweep that much harder. Lewison suddenly hissed, stopping everyone in their tracks. Far ahead, Mick could see a glow emanating from a massive pit. The lights were on in the mine.

Mickey heard the tell-tale rattle of barbed wire ahead, then three quick twangs as Lewison snipped it. The young agent pulled it aside and whispered: “Keep moving.”

Evenstad and Artyom crept ahead while Lewison twisted the wires off to keep the hole open in case the four of them needed to get out quick. Mick shifted the load in his arms and followed the scientists. As soon as he was through, the young agent whispered past, again taking point.

“Always got wire cutters on you?” Mick asked Lewison's back.

“They're handy on the plains,” he said. “Out here, you have to be prepared for anything.”

“That policy helps everywhere, kid,” Mick said. He was getting more and more impressed with Lewison. The agent knew how to handle himself, he stayed on his toes, and he took the weirdness in stride.

The four men walked in silence for another ten minutes before they reached the lip of the quarzite pit. The scar in the earth loomed before them. A gentle fuzz of light barely escaped its edge, but at its center was a flurry of brightly illuminated activity. Lewison dropped down onto his stomach and crawled forward until he could peer over the lip. Mickey hushed the two scientists, set down the bags, and flopped onto his own belly. He struggled and squirmed until he was alongside the younger agent.

Blazing banks of portable spotlights lit the bustling activities of several dozen men. Though they were not wearing uniforms they moved like soldiers: steady, confident, and synchronized in their tasks. Four large trailers sat in the middle of the pit, all but one windowless. The soldiers were busy hooking them up to trucks, readying their operation for a move.

“Looks like we showed up right on time,” Mickey said. “You got stronger eyes than me, kid. See anything?”

Lewison winked, then pulled a small spyglass out of a pocket. He scanned the scene below.

“I count thirty-one men outside. No heavy weapons, all armed with handguns plus six toting shotguns. Who are these guys?”

“Guns for hire, maybe, or imported Abwehr agents. See anyone that stands out compared to the rest of the goons?”

“Just your typical knuckle-draggers. No sign of any old Norwegians, but, there's someone in charge.” Lewison peered toward the swarming men through the lens. “And, he seems to be expecting us.”

“What?” Mickey snapped. He snatched the spyglass out of Lewison's hand and focused it on the trailers.

“Standing in the door of the one with the windows,” Lewison said.

Mickey looked at the largest trailer. A man stood there in a beekeeper’s hood, aiming a suppressed rifle with a massive scope, and a black searchlight on top of that. Mickey recognized it from briefings as a ZG 1229 Vampir night scope, a kraut weapon that let the man see them clear as day. They had gotten themselves got, dead to rights. The man lowered his rifle, then waved. Mick sighed and handed the monocular back to Lewison.

“What is it?” Lewison asked. He looked through the lens at the man who'd sighted him. “Crap.”

“Yeah,” Mick said. He chuckled and checked the transponder in his pocket. The little green light was still glowing strong. He asked: “What's he doing now?”

“He's motioning for us to come down,” Lewison said.

“Sounds like we should see what he wants,” Mick said.

“I'm not just turning myself over to a Nazi,” Lewison growled. He twisted around and grabbed his shotgun, only to have a puff of dry dirt shoot up in his face. He spat grit onto the ground.

“I say we do what he wants,” Mickey replied. He dug around in the upturned dirt and exhumed a copper-jacketed bullet. He let Lewison have a good look at the green grooves etched into it. “This is a nine-millimeter round laced with cyanide. It's either one of these right now, or we get a chance to talk about it first.”

“Talking first is better for me,” Lewison said. Mick nodded, then stood up, his hands in the air. The Indian Affairs agent did the same. The man with the rifle brought a whistle to his lips and let loose three sharp trills. His milling men dropped what they were doing and made a beeline for Mick's position on the ridge.

“He already got us, didn't he?” Evenstad sighed. “I am getting too old for science.”

“Now doc, I'm sure you got a few good years left in you,” Mickey said. “Let's go see what these mooks want.”

The four men made their way down the slope, slow and careful to prevent Evenstad from taking a tumble. The goon squad met them two-thirds of the way up the slope and relieved them of their gear and weapons. The man who'd loosed the bugs on them at White Cloud, Walsh, was among the thugs. He winked at Mickey, then pushed his shotgun into Mick's back and escorted him the rest of the way into the pit mine.

Their dead-shot boss was waiting for them in front of the trailer. The goons herded Mickey, Lewison, Evenstad, and Artyom into the center of the pit and boxed them in. There was nowhere to run.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” the boss said, removing his hood. The man was an inch under six feet tall, pale as a dove, and entirely hairless. His smile was cruel and his eyes were lunar gray, intense under a heavy bare brow.

Mickey’d seen this kind of asshole before.

“Brotherhood,” he spat. “I hate these guys.”

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Copyright © 2024 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Bruce Connors.