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Ransom of the Phoenix
Ransom of the Phoenix
"Good bye to you schmuck." Packard answered. Juan's smile changed to a frown for a moment, but then with a shrug he turned and walked towards the rig to examine the canisters. Packard followed Jim to the rear of the barn. At the side of a long, shallow hole Jim motioned Packard closer. With a quizzical expression twisting the sharp planes of his face Packard moved to the end of the hole. "Hey, what the fuck we doing out here? You assholes keep your dough in a hole or something?" He laughed at his cleverness. "Or something." The cold in Jim's voice was glacial. He quickly pulled out a small caliber pistol from his coat, the same he had used to kill the unconscious gang member, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The small pistol, making a series of coughing sounds, stitched a line of red, weeping holes across Packard's chest. "Shmuck", he added. With an astonished look Packard grabbed at his chest and, twisting from the force of impact, fell face first into the pit and lay twitching as Jim covered him with dirt. "Sweet dreams asshole." He chortled as he shoveled the last spadeful into the pit. Planting the shovel like a tombstone at the head of the unmarked grave, he went back to the barn. "That's one problem out of the way." Jim said casually as he entered the barn. "The terminal in the car?" "No, it's in the house. Let's go." Juan answered as he leapt down from the trailer. They quickly closed the huge barn doors and carefully padlocked them. Against the aged wood the new hasp looked odd. They walked the short distance to the old farm house. Juan opened the back door and entered, returning almost immediately with an attache case. "Here it is." He lifted the case slightly to emphasize his words. "Good, let's get going." The two re-checked the lock on the barn, got into the dirty van and drove away. Behind the barn the dirt in the hole slowly moved, perhaps settling around Packards body . . .
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