Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (best historical fiction books of all time txt) 📗

the neo-Nazi gang. And once the thugs had what they came for, they’d likely tie up the loose ends. Dead men make lousy witnesses.

But she was the wild card. And she was ready. No way in hell she was going to watch as a bunch of extremists walked away with the explosives and machine guns.

She had other plans.

Plans which even Bic was not privy to.

After returning her concentration to scanning across the vast meadow, a few scattered drops splashed on the rock ledge. After several minutes, the droplets ceased and the cloud cover, although low, failed to merge with terra firma to interfere with her glassing.

She looked at her watch. Almost noon. Those guys ought to show up any time now, unless they’re as inept as Bic and his nephew. Wishful thinking.

As the view through the spotting scope reached the far left of the meadow, she saw it. Movement. Only one person at first, but soon she saw two more men, all dressed in civilian camouflage hunting gear. All carrying assault-style rifles. Not surprising. They were still a long way off—beyond the thousand-yard limit of her laser rangefinder. But they were moving on a trajectory that would lead them right to the crates of merchandise.

She nudged the spotting scope. Neither Bic nor Eddie had noticed the approach of the LAD men.

She frowned. I hope Bic still has the radio on and is paying attention.

She keyed the mic. Bic raised a hand to his shirt pocket, feeling the click as much as hearing the faint sound. He raised his gaze toward her. Although there was no way he could see her, she could read his features and movements through the magnification of the spotting scope.

Good boy, Bic. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.

“I think we have company Eddie,” Bic said. “Must be on the other side of the meadow.”

“Huh?” The young man looked around, but couldn’t see the approaching buyers, who were still hidden from view by the lush foliage of the wetland.

“Why don’t you put your shoes on. I think I should greet our business partners.”

While Eddie busied himself, Bic strode around the cattails and bush willows until he had cleared enough vegetation to see the approaching trio. He stopped and waved an arm above his head to draw their attention.

Without breaking stride, the three men advanced directly to within thirty yards of the gunsmith. Bic still had his rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Hello. I’m Bic Turner.”

The three men stood apart from each other. Each had an assault rifle pointed toward Bic but not directly at him. The two men on either end wore day packs, but not the guy in the middle.

“Figured,” the middle guy said. “You can call me Luther.”

He was a big man with a shaved head and full beard. Tattoos were party visible on his neck, extending to the base of his ears. His arms and thighs bulged against the clothing, threatening to split the seams.

“Where’s the merchandise?” Luther said.

“Follow me. Everything is stacked on the other side of the swamp. You can inspect the rifles if you want.”

“Bet your ass we will. And the explosives?”

“It’s all there. Everything.”

“Then I guess you better lead on.”

As Bic turned and marched off, Luther lifted his chin and nodded to the side. One of his accomplices crouched and darted in the opposite direction, around the marsh.

Bic was first to arrive at the cache of weapons and munitions, with Luther close behind.

“Here it is.” Bic outstretched his arms to the side before turning around to face Luther. “Hey, where’s the other guy?”

Luther glared at Eddie and sized him up.

“Who’s he?”

“Don’t worry. His name is Eddie. He works for me. I told the other guy—your boss, I think—that there would be two of us making the delivery.”

Eddie looked down at his toes, refusing to meet Luther’s gaze.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Luther said. “Anyone else here with you that you’ve failed to mention?”

Bic’s heartbeat sped up. Could he know about Danya? No. She’s well-hidden. And besides, if he knew, he wouldn’t be asking.

He summoned his courage and shook his head.

“No, just the two of us. And the mules.” He forced a smile, hoping his lie was convincing.

Luther turned his head to the side. “Karl, check out the merchandise.”

Karl advanced first to the explosives. He opened two containers and examined the yellow sticks inside, each cradled in a foam slot for protection against shock. Seeing no sign of age, or liquid droplets on the exterior surfaces of the sticks—which could be nitroglycerin—he returned the tops.

“Looks good.” Then he moved on to the cases of ammunition. “Are some of these rounds loaded in magazines?”

Bic nodded. “Just like your boss ordered. One hundred and twenty mags, each loaded with thirty rounds. They’re in this case here.” He slid the wood top aside.

Karl picked up two, selected at random. He pushed down on the top round with his thumb, happy with the spring tension. Then he moved to a crate of rifles.

“You modified these from civilian semiauto versions?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Bic said. “I’m a gunsmith. I specialize in AR models. Got my training in the Army.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?” Karl scowled.

He looked like a man who didn’t want to be where he was, doing what he was doing. Smaller than Luther by four inches and fifty pounds, Karl wore a ponytail, but the sides of his head were shaved, giving Bic the impression of a Viking warrior. Combined with his gruff demeanor, Bic decided he’d be on the losing end if he got in a fight with him.

“Sorry, man,” Bic said. “Just answering your question.”

“Well, then, Mister Gunsmith,” Karl said. “Let’s see if you do quality work, or if you are trying to pass off crap to us.”

He pulled a rifle from the crate and rammed home one of the magazines. Pulled back the charging bolt to chamber a round. Moved the fire select switch from safe to semi. Shouldered the carbine and aimed the open iron sights at a distant rock.

He fired…three shots with