Pecos

I know I said I wasn't doing anything else on here for a while, but a friend of mine from Arkansas sent me this first line as a goof.
I think he was just trying to get me started. If so it worked. It won't be very long, but I'm having fun with it.
Anything signed Habit was written by him, not me. Just doing some ad lib.
_________________________________________________________

From Habit:
I got the call Ricky, just have to find a truck, mabey a trailer, not sure yet, I have 48 hrs. Can you help?


Ricky:
####, dude. You always pick the worse times to pop back into my life.
You know I've gone straight. I got my license back and have a respectable gig now.
I'm off parole and I don't have to go to those NA meetings anymore.
But you always knew how to push my buttons and I come crawling back. Not this time.

Let me sleep on it. I'll give you a call, but don't get your hopes up.

Habit:
Dude, I respect that, look man, they are looking for a single, not a team, I liked the idea, I get to wind up in El Paso, they want a single because, in the past when there were 2 they got burned, remember, didn't we burn a few? I neeed logistics support, thats all, you will be far away, free to live your precious little life that you have become so comfortable with.

Just be there for me and answer the phone 24-7, you will be paid of course, I couldn't ask you to do anything for free, I know thats not your MO.

 

Yeah, I know what you're asking for.
Laundered cash, untraceable firearms, throwaway phones. Maybe a safe house in Texas.
You know my weak spot. In I get involved in an operation, I want to see it done properly.
That's going to mean calling in some favors.
I'm not getting any younger, so if we do this thing, let's do it right. And do it big.
I've got a score to settle out there with a certain one armed Columbian. Be a good time to even things out.
Then I'm done. I don't even care about the dope, or the women or the money anymore. Just want to finish it.

Eleven years without a drop of brown liquor, I bought a bottle of Turkey yesterday.
Trying to drown the demons from the past.
Never a wise thing to make decisions in that condition, but I made some calls last night.
The old machine is in motion. I couldn't stop it now if I wanted to.

 

He is like the cokehead ex girlfriend that shows up at my doorstep on a cold rainy night.
No matter how many times I say "you're on your own. I can't help you anymore", I always give in.
I said I wouldn't return to our old lifestyle, I'm allowing myself to be drawn back in.
Even after all the nightmares and the blood of fallen comrades on my hands, I fear a return to the insanity.


Habit:
Remember Joe in San Angelo? Well, he's dead, now we need another relay man, or can we do without? I'm telling you this because someone leaked information, at least it got that far, I had better get going before it gets over here, are you going to meet me in Dallas? I can stash the truck and steal a car to get you at the airport, then we can be on our way, like you said, "be done with it", I will have Maria, money, and the satisfaction of getting out of this one alive..I hope..

 

I heard about Joe and was hoping it wasn't true. He was a good soldier. He saved my butt in Panama.
I can't be seen in Dallas. Some unfinished business I never told you about.
No worries. An old associate has a private airstrip in Pecos. Nice and secluded. Even has a warehouse if we need it. He's out of the business,but this guy owes me a huge favor.I saved him from San Quentin in '87.
These truckload moves always make me nervous, but I got a good feeling about this one.
The old juices are flowing.



My boy from Atlanta dropped off the full auto kits for the AR15s. And a couple sat phones too.
One more thing I should mention, since I've never lied to you. Not counting the deal with that transvestite in Little Rock, but hey, I finally fessed up.
Remember I said I bought a bottle of Turkey yesterday?
Well, I bought another one today. I'm scared if I stop, the shakes will come back.
The morphine always was good for that, but I want to be clear headed for this mission. I don't want to let you down man.

 

Ricky,

I am writing this letter to you...man this is hard, dude, I got hijacked in Pecos, seems the info was leaked like I thought, I am sending you this at gunpoint, its the Columbians man, they took me and the truck to a little town called Castolon, right on the border, they are allowing me to put forth this information, well, because they want you, there was not much I could do with the truck, I could never out run them and they were well armed, they had a LAW and a wire guided DRAGON, used for killing tanks, where they got that I'll never know, I wish they would have used it.

This thing has leaked so far that they even have my Maria, someone has really screwed us, I'm scared, not so much for me but for you and Maria, run Ricky, go back to the hills, they will never find you there, let Maria and I meet our fate, the only thing I will ask of you is, find out who the leak is and kill them!!!!

Yours in solidarity

Habit

 

#### it! I knew this would happen. That boy is so impatient. And I told him a hundred times not to mix broads and business.

Wait a minute. What day is this? Oh, my head is on fire. The clock by the bed says 2:20. AM or PM?
It's so dark in this room. No windows.
Something sticky on my hands.
By the dim glow of the digital numerals I see someone else in the bed and she doesn't seem to be breathing.

I stumbled to the bathroom to relileve myself and find some water for my parched throat, not daring to venture out in search of a vending machine.
I drank seven of the little plastic cups of almost warm water.
The bathroom light cast an indirect light across the bed and the dead blonde. I didn't know her.
Her mouth and eyes were open, but there was no obvious sign of trauma.
There was a large dark damp stain on the comforter.
I pulled it back for inspection. I promptly returned to the bathroom and threw up.
It was clearly the work of the Columbians. Their trademark was unmistakeable.
I realized what I was feeling wasn't a hangover. I'd been sedated. That would explain the memory loss.
I notice the light blinking on the phone at my feet. Why was it on the floor? Six missed calls in the last nineteen hours.

 

I give 'em credit for a professional job. They sent a clear message and effectively separated me from the mission.
I see now how Habit got ambushed in Pecos. I wasn't there for back up. I don't know where the hell I was.
I do know it's time to get the hell outa Dodge.
I reach into my suitcase for a fresh shirt and find a gory surprise. I presume the bloody bayonet has my prints on it, since I last saw it in my cabin. I've had it since Ranger school. Three notches on the handle from Panama, and two from Syria.
How did I get here? More importantly, how am I leaving?
I find a single key in my pocket. Peterbilt. I cautiously pull back the drapes to see my old metallic blue '97 379 that I parked in the barn three years ago. It was bobtail.
Did I leave a trailer somewhere, or on the way to get one?
It might help if I knew where I was. The pamphlet on the desk welcomes me to the Days Inn of Van Horn, TX. Hmm. Two hours from El Paso. I'm sticking out like a sore thumb if I take the Pete, but I can't leave it here. Registered in my name, it ties me to the dead girl in a room that is surely registered in my name as well.

 

Need to wipe everything down I may have touched. Won't matter if they have me on camera in the lobby, but can't hurt.
It's an unpleasant task, but I need to inspect under and around the body.
These devious savages could have left something incriminating behind to nail me with.
Not so bad. She's still somewhat limber. No smell yet, either.
Aha. Under her hair, splayed on the pillow, is none other than my old Zippo lighter,engraved with my name and old special forces unit crest.
Haven't used it in years. It's been in the desk drawer with that Peterbilt key all that time.
This is getting way to spooky.

 

Having to rely on blind luck, I leave Van Horn, heading east, with lights off.
A few miles out, I take an exit that leads to nowhere, as far as I know.
I throw the suitcase on the gravel. Taking out my old bayonet as carefully as possible,I wipe it down with a tee shirt and drop it into the right fuel tank. I'm not a chemist, but I thing a little while in there should eradicate any telltale traces of anything. Fish it out later, if I survive this.
My ez-siphon is still in the tool box. I use it to extract about a half gallon of diesel, soaking the bloody contents of the suitcase, which I moved into a deep ditch and set aflame.
The '97 379 was the first year of the Ultra Cab. The cab roof was raised about six inches, creating more head room. It also created storage compartments over the windshield and some hidden space as well.
Yep, still there. My old .45 is still where I left it, wrapped in oil cloth, along with three full twelve round magazines.
Next step is to find some less conspicuous transportation.


Almost too easy. The old gentleman was drinking coffee with his back to the window at the old truck stop in Plateau. The keys were in the ignition of the eight year old Chevy pick up which looked like every other one in these parts.
Just a short hop up to the big rest area on I-10, where I pull in behind a nearly identical model with the driver fast asleep in the seat. Switched plates in less than a minute, and continue east at the speed limit.

 

Not much time...they cut off my left foot...Maria is columbian..she burned me...Im a dead man...abandon this...go back to GA...I'm done for..., they are coming, can't let them catch me..run Ricky, you want no part of this............Mom? Dad?................