Sheepdog-13

The county once boasted of having Hollywood celebrities keeping cabins or summer homes at resorts in the area, and that meant the establishment of a small airport so that those wealthy people could fly directly into the county and then take a short drive to their getaways in this lake-rich land. It was at this airport that Ken found himself that night. Guiscard gave him the name of the man there to find, a feckless opportunist by the name of Frank, and the Sheriff confirmed Guiscard’s intelligence of this Frank as a fixer of sorts.

Ken rode up to the hanger where Frank was said to be, found him and sucker-punched him. A few moments later, Ken beat Frank into unconsciousness- and not one word was said. Ken handed him off to Jackson, who took Frank off to the county jail, and took his place. Shortly after Jackson slipped out of sight, Ken heard the faint rumbling of road hogs; the Angels were near, and closing. Moments later, they pulled into the hanger.

A score in all, each one fully-patched, their bottom-rockers proclaiming their territory as the whole of Minnesota, lined up their bikes and dismounted. Then a handful of trucks and SUVs rolled into the hanger, and out of them stepped a dozen of Mexican gangsters—Zetas siccarios—that mixed with the Angels uneasily.

The eldest of both groups met up and then approached Ken.

“You Frank?” the Angel said.

Ken coughed. “Yeah.”

“Show us.” the Zeta said, “Now.”

“Come into my office.” Ken said, stalling, and he led them into Frank’s office and had them take seats. Seeing Frank’s keyring, and knowing from Guiscard about Frank’s recent activities, Ken figured that Frank arranged for something to keep them boys pacified.

“It’s a long ride from the Cities.” Ken said, “I bet you’re ready for some fun while we wait for the last of our guests?”

The Angel smiled. “You remembered the booze. Good.”

“Grab a couple of the guys, and let’s get this started.”

Ken led the two leaders and a couple of their men to a backroom, kept cool, where Frank had a large cooler filled with a pair of kegs, another with ice and frozen meats, and everything needed to set up a tailgate-style of party in the hanger. Without so much as a word, the guys hauled it all out and set it up. Cups passed around, and soon their guard came down as they relaxed.

Ken learned that the leaders were Mark and Pedro, and let them go on about all the women they fucked, the guys they killed, the scams they ran and so on once the booze loosened their tongues. Ken had his phone on, recording it all, making excuses now and then to swap SD cards or charge up the phone—usually using the Men’s Room—and carefully stashed the recorded conversations for later retrieval.

A few hours later, a plane landed at the airport and taxied its way into the hanger. Nothing unusual about it—it was the sort of twin-engined small jet one expects of successful, ambitious men with means—and out of it came some well-dressed men with a military bearing to them, not unlike Pedro and his siccarios.

Their leader, a white-haired man who seemed out of place without either a military uniform or an operator’s field gear, scanned the room and frowned.

“Where is Franklin Anderson?” the old man said, anger simmering.