PART IX INTO THE DARKNESS #3
Audrey and I stared at the wide space, speechless.
Then music started in the mansion: modern dance music. Beyoncé’s ‘All the Single Ladies’.
The dancing had begun to a song by one of the world’s most successful Black women.
‘Okay, that was fucked up,’ Audrey whispered.
I stood.
‘The plan stays the same. I’ll go to the top of the hill. You get us a couple of SUVs for when the guests scatter.’
‘Got it.’
‘Give me fifteen minutes.’
‘Copy that,’ Audrey said. ‘Oh, and Sam.’
‘Yeah—?’ I turned to face her only to feel her lips suddenly pressing against mine.
She was kissing me again, briefly and passionately.
She pulled back.
‘You’re a sweet guy, Sam Speedman. Try not to die.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
I hustled away, dashing up the rocky hill, heading for its peak.
I reached the summit five minutes later.
It offered a remarkable view of the entire Kingman property, indeed the whole region.
Far to the west, across the swamp plain, I could see the glow of the city of Orange across the Texas border.
To the north, immediately below me, was the Kingman mansion, the oak-lined allée and the cow paddock which was again being used as a parking lot.
In it, I saw perhaps thirty cars parked in neat rows: Range Rovers, Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs; the cars of the guests at the rehearsal dinner, parked there by valets.
Further north beyond the mansion was the town of Victorville—its few streets deserted, probably because most of its inhabitants were at the party.
And beyond Victorville, out past the curving darkness of the river, was the I-10 freeway.
The main thing I wanted to see from up here, however, was to the south.
I peered that way and far in the distance, glowing a sickly yellow on the horizon perhaps ten miles away, its many lights blinking, I saw the Kingman petrochemical plant.
Preparations . . .
I pulled a remote from my pocket.
I paused for a second, gripping it.
This was it.
This was my plan.
Could I really do this?
Then I thought about LaToya Martyn and Linc Lewis and the slaves I’d seen down in the cavern and the grotesquerie of the cakewalk.
Yeah, I could definitely fucking do it.
I pressed a button on the remote . . .
. . . and far off in the distance, a bright flashing explosion rocked the Kingman petrochemical plant.
That was the first explosive I’d planted there.
Five more similar explosions followed—the other five RDX charges I’d taken from the Saudis.
They were not exactly large blasts, but they were well placed.
For they ignited the flammable contents of the enormous petroleum tanks at the terminal—which meant that the blasts that followed were bigger.
Much bigger.
The night-time horizon blazed with light as several huge explosions blew the entire petrochemical plant apart.
They sounded like thunder.
Billowing clouds of fire rose into the sky followed by blankets of smoke that blocked out the stars.
As flames spread throughout the terminal, racing along its pipelines, more tanks exploded.
Booms echoed across the landscape.
The ground shook.
Then one of the oil tankers moored at the terminal ignited and it blew apart, toppled sideways and began to sink.
The sky glowed orange.
Anyone within a twenty-mile radius heard and felt it.
Including the guests at the Kingman–Dearborn rehearsal dinner.
From my perch atop the hill, I saw them come running out of the mansion.
The men in suits, the women in their gowns.
Some of the men sprinted across the glen, making for my hill, to get a look at what had happened.
Many held cell phones to their ears.
Others tapped on their phones, searching for information.
Most of the guests, however, hurried to their Mercs and Range Rovers in the spare paddock and sped away.
The party was over.
In the distance, sirens began to wail.
Every police and fire department in the region was sending vehicles to the burning petrochemical plant.
And then someone at the rehearsal dinner made the call.
The livestock truck that had been parked beside the property’s barn was started up and backed up to the northern end of the glen.
Armed guards led by the Hammer—he’d thrown off his suit jacket and was now strapping on his law enforcement–style gun belt over his formal trousers—rushed into the cavern behind the triple-forked tree and came out, shouting and cursing, guiding
the slaves to the waiting truck.
The slaves—men, women and children—all looked confused and alarmed at this peculiar happening.
But I’d banked on it.
That in response to a catastrophic industrial accident close to their property—just like Bill Brewster had witnessed during that tropical storm in 1993, a similar event that might bring unwanted observers like federal agencies and news helicopters to the area—the Kingmans had a protocol to evacuate their slaves from the property.
As they were now doing.
I bounded down the northern side of the hill, crashing through brush, ducking under branches.
My goal: the cow paddock beside the mansion where the cars of the guests had been parked.
I got there just as the livestock transport truck—now totally filled with slaves—rumbled out a side gate and turned onto the allée.
No sooner was it on the allée than four cars swung into place around it—two sheriff’s cars in front, two SSS security cars behind.
An escort for the evacuation.
The five-vehicle convoy sped off down the oak-lined driveway.
I was watching it go when suddenly someone appeared at my side.
I whipped out my gun then lowered it.
It was Audrey.
‘Well, you got their attention.’
‘They’re initiating the evacuation protocol, as I hoped,’ I said. ‘They’re taking the slaves to the Dearborn property in Texas, like Brewster saw.’
Several cars were still in the paddock.
Clearly, not every guest had left; a few must’ve been staying with the Kingmans to figure out what was going on.
Audrey held two key fobs that she’d taken from the valets’ key cabinet.
‘What do you want? Range Rover or a G-wagon?’ she asked.
A silver Range Rover Sport and a supercharged black Mercedes G63 ‘G-wagon’ were parked close by.
‘I’ll take the Merc,’ I said.
She tossed me its key fob.
Audrey jumped into the Range Rover and I was grabbing the doorhandle of the G-wagon when suddenly a stocky man in a suit, running at full speed, rounded my car and seeing me, stopped, his eyes springing wide open.
It was Beau Kingman, the groom.
‘You!’ he shouted.
I reached for my gun—
‘Don’t,’ a voice said calmly from behind me.
I turned.
Tad Kingman Jr stood there with a pistol in his hand aimed at my head.
‘This was all you!’ Beau yelled, furious.
Tad Jr was cooler. Gripping his gun—a sleek silver Smith & Wesson 642 short-barrelled revolver—he patted me down, yanked off my backpack, which had my gun in it, and tossed it away.
He scanned my bruised face and bandaged right hand.
And he smirked.
‘I can’t believe such a scrawny little four-eyed prick’—(118.)—‘could cause our family so many problems,’ he said.
I had to keep him talking.
‘LaToya Martyn was your slave, wasn’t she?’ I said. ‘You made her yours after your bachelor party back in 2018.’
‘I did,’ Tad Jr said. ‘Not much of a breeder, LaToya. Bitch only gave me two girls. Called the first one some negro name, Kecia or something. And the second one was born dead a few weeks ago. But I always enjoyed fucking her. Shared her with Beau, here. Gotta give your little brother a turn, y’know. ’
Behind me, Beau sniggered. ‘Sure do.’
‘You people are all kinds of fucked up,’ I said, glancing over Tad Jr’s shoulder at something.
‘You can’t win this.’ Tad Jr re-aimed his pistol at me. ‘You never could. It’s time for you to die now.’
An engine roared.
Headlights blazed to life as an SUV suddenly thundered at the three of us.
I jumped onto the hood of the G-wagon.
Tad Jr spun and dived aside.
His brother Beau was too slow.
Audrey’s Range Rover slammed into Beau Kingman, its front bumper crushing his legs against the G-wagon.
Beau screamed, pinned between the two cars, his knees horrifi-cally broken.
I launched myself off the hood of the G-wagon and tackled Tad Jr, grabbing his gun hand.
We rolled across the dirt and the Smith & Wesson went flying.
I didn’t have time for this.
I only had a short window of time to catch up with the livestock truck.
‘Audrey!’ I yelled and saw her leap out of the Range Rover to come to my aid, gun in hand—
—when someone slammed into Audrey from behind, knocking her to the ground, causing her to drop her gun.
It was Mary Beth, personal bodyguard to Mrs Clara Kingman.
Audrey got to her feet, facing off against the former Marine and mixed martial artist.
‘Little Miss FBI, huh?’ Mary Beth cracked her knuckles. ‘They teach you how to fight with your fists at the FBI?’
‘Sure did,’ Audrey replied.
And so as I fought Tad Jr, Audrey fought Mary Beth.
Tad Jr and I slammed against the paddock’s fence.
It was an old fence of timber posts connected by wires that were attached with nails.
‘I’m gonna fucking kill you!’ he yelled as we struggled.
Mary Beth unleashed a barrage of fierce blows at Audrey—who gamely parried them all, surprising the bodyguard.
‘You can fight,’ Mary Beth said, impressed. ‘Least you think you can.’
Then the bodyguard ramped up her tempo and the blows came faster, much faster, and suddenly one of her fists broke through Audrey’s defences and—bam!—hit home, sending Audrey’s head snapping backwards.
I was still grappling with Tad Jr beside the wire fence as he shouted with rage, ‘—kill you and feed you to Goliath—’
At which point I grabbed his hair and, dropping to one knee, banged him face-first into the nearest fencepost and Tad Kingman Jr went instantly still.
His head remained pressed against the post, impaled on the exposed nail I’d jammed his right eye onto.
Nasty way to go, even for an asshole like him.
I pushed myself off the ground.
I had to help Audrey. I spun—