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"The Last Stand of Kid Chaz"
"The Last Stand of Kid Chaz"
4/24/1985
It was already getting dark when Jeremy Bane pulled up behind the half dozen Connecticut State Police cars which sat at the bottom of the hill. He parked his Mustang and got out, frowning at the scene. Troopers crouched behind their cars, rifles at the ready, staring up at the old mining shack which leaned unsteadily atop the hill. Tar paper covered the windows, the stovepipe chimney had a trickle of black smoke seeping from it, and a beat-up Ford pick-up was sitting by the front door.
The captain in charge, a huge man way over six feet tall and heavy around the middle, came over to meet him. "You're Bane?"
"That's right. Captain Becker, I rushed here as fast as I could. What's the situation?"
"Got a real mad dog up there. He was involved in a jewelry store robbery in Eugene, Oregon. Killed two employees and a pedestrian who was crossing the street as the gang was leaving, just shot them dead. He's been on the run ever since. Name is Charlie Martell, they call him Kid Chaz."
The Dire Wolf moved closer to get a better look at the shack. He was wearing his usual outfit of all black... boots, slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. "And he asked for me?"
"By name. Care to explain why he'd do that?"
Bane turned his pale grey eyes on the captain. "I knew his father. Louie Martell. Sleazy guy, blackmailer and extortionist. I had to thrash him pretty badly but I managed to take him alive. That was five years ago. Last I heard, he was getting out early on an appeal, some technicality."
"He'd have been better off staying in the slammer," snorted the captain. "Kid Chaz shot him dead. Crossed his old man, killed him and took the loot. Him and his girlfriend Ricki Loos got this far before being cornered."
"And where's this girlfriend?"
"Dead too. This guy has something seriously wrong in his head. He's been sticking what looks like a Marlin 30.-30 out through one of the windows and taking a shot now and then. The brush has been cleared off that hill, so he can see in all directions." Captain Becker adjusted his belt up over his substantial belly but could not seem to get it comfortable. "That's not the worst, though."
"Really," said Bane. "What IS the worst?"
"He's got a case of dynamite in that shack. He could hold out there all night." Becker exhaled sharply. "He already tossed a stick down the other side of the hill and it made quite a bang. The dynamite's real, all right."
One of the troopers came over. "Captain, I see movement where the door is open a crack."
"Maybe he's seen our guest arrive," Becker said. "Get back under cover, Donaldson. Well, Bane, you want to try to talking to him? We got a megaphone, I already told him to surrender."
The Dire Wolf shook his head. "No, I'll go up there and see what he wants."
"He's awful careless about shooting folks," Becker warned.
"I've got a bulletproof vest. These jokers always take a body shot. You guys stand by for the moment." Bane raised his open hands to shoulder level and started walking up the hill. Despite what he had said, in fact he was wearing flexible Trom armor which protected every part of his body except hands, neck and head. Even so, it was a tense walk up the gentle slope toward that shack.
"That's close enough! Stop right there, I don't want to shoot no one," called a voice as Bane got within speaking distance. "You're the Dire Wolf, right?"
"That's right. I drove here from Manhattan to see what you want, Charlie." Bane kept his hands up, feet well apart. He couldn't get even a glimpse of anyone in the shack. This close, he saw where holes had been poked in the tar paper over the windows, and the door was ajar.
"Listen, I want to negotiate. You know my father was a bookkeeper for the mob, right?"
"Yeah, I knew that. He kept track for the Vincenzeo family," Bane called up to the door.
"Well, I got the copies he made of everything. It was his insurance if the mob ever turned on him. I know the feds want those books, I think maybe they'll cut me some slack if I hand them over, eh?"
Bane scoffed. "Just like that. All is forgiven? I don't think so. You're up on five charges of murder, armed robbery, flight to avoid arrest, a couple of other things. The courts will not be interested in making a deal with you."
There was silence for a long moment, then the voice shouted, "My old man said you could be trusted to talk straight. I guess there's no hope now."
"Well, honestly what did you expect?" Bane called up to the shack. "Right now, all you can do is make the best of it. Toss the rifle down, then come out yourself. The troopers are not going to take a shot with me standing in the way. At least you'll be brought in unhurt for trial."
"I ain't going to prison!" yelled the voice behind the door. "I'll die first. Don't take me alive." The door swung open a little wider and a hand stuck out, clutching a red stick of dynamite. The lit fuse burned like a Fourth of July sparkler. Faster than anyone there had ever seen, Jeremy Bane drew and fired once, hitting that hand just below the wrist. There was a shriek of sudden pain, the dynamite fell and rolled back inside the cabin. Instantly, the Dire Wolf swung around into a low crouch, covering his head with his arms and opening his mouth. The explosion blew the flimsy shack to bits. Pieces of wood and cloth flew in all directions and a huge ball of grey smoke expanded out from the blast.
One chunk of a 2X4 smacked the crouching Bane painfully between the shoulder blades, but not hard enough to knock him over. He straightened up, ears ringing and smoke stinging his nostrils. The Dire Wolf saw the agents of the law starting to hurry up toward him and he smiled tightly, then turned around to face the smoldering pile of debris. "I never intended to take you alive," he said to whatever was left of Kid Chaz.
6/26/2014
4/24/1985
It was already getting dark when Jeremy Bane pulled up behind the half dozen Connecticut State Police cars which sat at the bottom of the hill. He parked his Mustang and got out, frowning at the scene. Troopers crouched behind their cars, rifles at the ready, staring up at the old mining shack which leaned unsteadily atop the hill. Tar paper covered the windows, the stovepipe chimney had a trickle of black smoke seeping from it, and a beat-up Ford pick-up was sitting by the front door.
The captain in charge, a huge man way over six feet tall and heavy around the middle, came over to meet him. "You're Bane?"
"That's right. Captain Becker, I rushed here as fast as I could. What's the situation?"
"Got a real mad dog up there. He was involved in a jewelry store robbery in Eugene, Oregon. Killed two employees and a pedestrian who was crossing the street as the gang was leaving, just shot them dead. He's been on the run ever since. Name is Charlie Martell, they call him Kid Chaz."
The Dire Wolf moved closer to get a better look at the shack. He was wearing his usual outfit of all black... boots, slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. "And he asked for me?"
"By name. Care to explain why he'd do that?"
Bane turned his pale grey eyes on the captain. "I knew his father. Louie Martell. Sleazy guy, blackmailer and extortionist. I had to thrash him pretty badly but I managed to take him alive. That was five years ago. Last I heard, he was getting out early on an appeal, some technicality."
"He'd have been better off staying in the slammer," snorted the captain. "Kid Chaz shot him dead. Crossed his old man, killed him and took the loot. Him and his girlfriend Ricki Loos got this far before being cornered."
"And where's this girlfriend?"
"Dead too. This guy has something seriously wrong in his head. He's been sticking what looks like a Marlin 30.-30 out through one of the windows and taking a shot now and then. The brush has been cleared off that hill, so he can see in all directions." Captain Becker adjusted his belt up over his substantial belly but could not seem to get it comfortable. "That's not the worst, though."
"Really," said Bane. "What IS the worst?"
"He's got a case of dynamite in that shack. He could hold out there all night." Becker exhaled sharply. "He already tossed a stick down the other side of the hill and it made quite a bang. The dynamite's real, all right."
One of the troopers came over. "Captain, I see movement where the door is open a crack."
"Maybe he's seen our guest arrive," Becker said. "Get back under cover, Donaldson. Well, Bane, you want to try to talking to him? We got a megaphone, I already told him to surrender."
The Dire Wolf shook his head. "No, I'll go up there and see what he wants."
"He's awful careless about shooting folks," Becker warned.
"I've got a bulletproof vest. These jokers always take a body shot. You guys stand by for the moment." Bane raised his open hands to shoulder level and started walking up the hill. Despite what he had said, in fact he was wearing flexible Trom armor which protected every part of his body except hands, neck and head. Even so, it was a tense walk up the gentle slope toward that shack.
"That's close enough! Stop right there, I don't want to shoot no one," called a voice as Bane got within speaking distance. "You're the Dire Wolf, right?"
"That's right. I drove here from Manhattan to see what you want, Charlie." Bane kept his hands up, feet well apart. He couldn't get even a glimpse of anyone in the shack. This close, he saw where holes had been poked in the tar paper over the windows, and the door was ajar.
"Listen, I want to negotiate. You know my father was a bookkeeper for the mob, right?"
"Yeah, I knew that. He kept track for the Vincenzeo family," Bane called up to the door.
"Well, I got the copies he made of everything. It was his insurance if the mob ever turned on him. I know the feds want those books, I think maybe they'll cut me some slack if I hand them over, eh?"
Bane scoffed. "Just like that. All is forgiven? I don't think so. You're up on five charges of murder, armed robbery, flight to avoid arrest, a couple of other things. The courts will not be interested in making a deal with you."
There was silence for a long moment, then the voice shouted, "My old man said you could be trusted to talk straight. I guess there's no hope now."
"Well, honestly what did you expect?" Bane called up to the shack. "Right now, all you can do is make the best of it. Toss the rifle down, then come out yourself. The troopers are not going to take a shot with me standing in the way. At least you'll be brought in unhurt for trial."
"I ain't going to prison!" yelled the voice behind the door. "I'll die first. Don't take me alive." The door swung open a little wider and a hand stuck out, clutching a red stick of dynamite. The lit fuse burned like a Fourth of July sparkler. Faster than anyone there had ever seen, Jeremy Bane drew and fired once, hitting that hand just below the wrist. There was a shriek of sudden pain, the dynamite fell and rolled back inside the cabin. Instantly, the Dire Wolf swung around into a low crouch, covering his head with his arms and opening his mouth. The explosion blew the flimsy shack to bits. Pieces of wood and cloth flew in all directions and a huge ball of grey smoke expanded out from the blast.
One chunk of a 2X4 smacked the crouching Bane painfully between the shoulder blades, but not hard enough to knock him over. He straightened up, ears ringing and smoke stinging his nostrils. The Dire Wolf saw the agents of the law starting to hurry up toward him and he smiled tightly, then turned around to face the smoldering pile of debris. "I never intended to take you alive," he said to whatever was left of Kid Chaz.
6/26/2014