Midnight Train to Memphis

By Derek Davis

Illegal gambling, confidential diamond importing, money laundering, and murder are common practice for millionaire Wayne Remington. Basing his operation in Memphis, Tennessee has turned heads and District Attorney Ben Lawson intends to do more than watch as he fights to bring Remington’s operation to an end. However, the rich villain's connections stand high on the corporate ladder; and, all he has to do is present a scapegoat for the jury. At first glance, Ryan Smith seems to be the perfect candidate for the set up; but, with the help of his brother, Ricky, and some of his close friends from his military past, Ryan could prove to be an adversary bringing more than a good fight. The chase is on! Can Smith overcome all obstacles and help Lawson bring down this unorthodox kingpin? Or, will Remington’s crew leave a trail of mayhem to be blamed on a body unable to argue his innocence?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derek Davis
• Release date: Nov 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9780979371561

Derek Davis

A big-city escapee, I live in the quiet hinterlands of northeast Pennsylvania. Former editor of the alternative paper now known as The Philadelphia Weekly, I've published over 60 short stories and and wrote a book-length history of the University of Pennsylvania Law School. Did a bunch of freelance editing, such as running the SAP Americas customer magazine, interviews with the likes of Noam Chomsky, and smoothing English translations of German PR. I had the most fun collaborating on a screenplay with my daughter, Caitlin and writing a cycle of eight local-history plays up here – as well as vaudeville routines. My favorite activity (other than writing) is turning trees into firewood for the wood stove that provides our "central" heating. My wife is the most wonderful potter I've ever known.

Book preview

Midnight Train

to

Memphis

Derek B. Davis

Copyright 2007 DotSon Publishing Group

Smashwords Edition

Prologue

What was that noise?

Specialist Ryan Smith of the United States Army woke from his sleep wondering what he had been dreaming about. It had to be something that had to do with the war because the noise he heard sounded like a bomb. The bottom bunk he slept on squeaked as he rolled over and saw no one else was in the room. The room Smith shared with his four teammates was painted drywall with marble floors, as were most of the palaces and hotels that he had seen since he first arrived in Iraq. This particular room he and his team occupied was in a three star hotel in Al-Hillah, a not so small town near the city of Babylon.

Smith’s team, labeled A47, was assigned to run operations for the U.S. Embassy set up in this hotel. The mission was much different from any other they had had being a signal team. Communications was not at all a noncombatant MOS, Military Occupational Specialty. Many signal teams were attached to infantry units to provide communications in the field. The men of A47 had done what they considered to be their fair share of time in the trenches (living in bunkers and tents, eating MRE’s, and having to wear full gear twenty out of twenty four hours in a day, only getting a good shower once a week) and had earned this laid back mission.

The floor was cold on Smith’s feet when he sat up and he thought about how great it was to have air conditioning in his sleeping area. Waking up in a pool of sweat was a memory he would not try to hold on to. A toilet flushed and Smith realized there was a bathroom readily available in the room, another luxury. Until now it had been only portable toilets colored tan to blend with the desert.

Matt Nicoletti, another specialist on Smith’s team, walked around the corner and nodded sleepily to acknowledge that he too had just woke up.

Did you hear that? Nicoletti was half Italian from his father’s side, but you wouldn’t know from the look of him. He had blonde hair and blue eyes and spoke like a hippie from California, which he was.

Hear what? Smith thought about the dream that he couldn’t remember.

I think somebody shot an RPG, Nicoletti reached down and pulled a cigarette and a lighter from the front pocket of his desert camouflage uniform pants and dropped them back on the floor. It was hella loud, he added as he turned toward the balcony door that was right beside his bunk, across the room from Smith.

What you got? Smith asked, pointing at the cigarette.

Haji, the cigarettes were bought at the Iraqi mart across the street.

Damn. Smith refused to smoke if it was not American.

It took Smith about two minutes to get completely dressed in his DCU’s, boots and all, and leave the room. He closed the door behind him and thought he heard a gunshot from inside the room. The sound was enough to stop him for a second until he realized that they had a shooting range close by, hearing shots being fired was nothing new. Smith laughed at himself for believing somebody would be stupid enough to attack this fortress they lived in. After all, it was guarded by Special Forces and a privately contracted security group called Black Water.

The office they had set up was just down the hallway still on the second floor. A keypad was mounted above the door knob and only a select few had the 7 digit code. Most of the material that passed through that room was classified. It was 47’s job as Operations to monitor convoys via radio contact, print out maps, and keep control of the keys for the other secure rooms in the building. Also in the office was the weapons locker. The weapons locker did not sit in the main office, but in a smaller office through a set of double doors at the back of the main room. Computers, used to pass sensitive information, were also kept in the smaller office. Everyone that entered the room had to show identification and be logged.

The code beeped into the keypad and Smith pushed through the door surprised not to hear uproar of conversation that usually filled the room. Even this early in the morning, there were always people passing through, either on business or out of boredom. Time went by really slow while deployed and everybody did anything and talked about everything with anybody just to make it pass.

There were three desks in the main office. One was a combination of two fold out tables set off by a 4 foot wall constructed out of plywood, that served to separate it from the others. Each of the two tables had a flat screen computer and a telephone with a black office chair on wheels. Behind them were a refrigerator and a tall dark wood cabinet with a lock on it.

Smith turned left into the office and walked behind the two fold out tables to get cold water out of the refrigerator. He turned around and opened the 20 oz bottle so he could take the first drink before having to continue on. His mouth was incredibly dry this morning. When he finished the drink that eliminated a quarter of the bottle, he looked across the room at the 4 foot wall that hid the other two desks. Those two desks were official office desks made of mahogany and held the same flat screen computers and phones as the fold out tables. The office chairs behind those desks had higher backs on them. A picture of Sergeant Johnson asleep in one of those chairs with his feet propped up on one of the desks entered his mind. It was probably the one on the right, he thought.

No one was behind the desks.

Smith turned to the right and looked through the double doors that led to the back office. They were propped open. At first all he noticed was that he was alone. There were times when too many people occupied the office while he was working, but never too few. Zero people was definitely too few. The next thing he noticed was the weapons locker was open.

More shots echoed from outside.

Smith played stupid when necessary, but he was not a dumb person. He was actually considered to be very smart by most people he knew and his IQ score confirmed it. Right now the only conclusion that made any sense would be the first thought he had had, and dismissed, earlier this morning about the hotel actually being under attack.

Now was not the time to attempt to make he believe that it was not possible. Now was the time to act. He pulled a Glock 9 mm handgun from the weapons locker and pushed a magazine into the open slot on the bottom of the handle. Holding the pistol in his right hand, he reached up to the top shelf and grabbed three full M16 magazines with his left. It was then he noticed two of the four M16 rifles and both M4 rifles were missing as well as the other four pistols they had. He laid the three magazines on the fold out table behind him, next to one of the computers. As he reached back into the locker for his M16, he heard the squeak he recognized as the double glass doors that led to the balcony. The doors were uneven on the hinges and the metal frames rubbed the rubber floor lining underneath causing a loud squeaking sound. This was the first time Smith was not annoyed by that sound. It was actually a relief to have heard the warning, given what was about to happen.

The tip of an AK-47 appeared through the doors. Smith squatted and eased out the door trying to stay low and behind the desk that set off to the right. It occurred to him there was not a round chambered in the pistol he held. If he cocked it, whoever held the AK-47 would be alerted he was taking aim. One fluid motion would have to involve pulling the slide back to load the weapon and squeezing the trigger.

That noise again. This time Smith was sure the loud bang that woke him from his sleep was an RPG striking barricade walls surrounding the hotel, and he had just heard it again! The walls in the office shook. Smith blinked and now, instead of the tip of a machine gun, he saw blue cover-alls backing through the door into the office. He waited until he saw dark black hair and the right side of a dark, bearded face and then pointed the Glock. Holding the pistol by the grip in his right hand, he pinched the rear of the slide between his left thumb and forefinger. Smith yanked the slide back and squeezed the trigger so fast he hardly realized he had done it.

Three shots echoed through the room. The first shot struck the blue cover-alls on the right side just behind the shoulder. A face was suddenly looking at Smith as he placed the other two shots directly in the center of the man’s chest. For a quick thought, Smith noticed that he recognized the face, but he did not let it slow him down. The double doors that led to the back office were just behind Smith and he backed through the opening, not taking his eyes away from the balcony doors.

Two more Iraqi men suddenly appeared in the room, momentarily standing over the now blue and red cover-alls that lay lifeless on the marble floor. Smith ducked behind the wall to his right as bullets sprayed around him, busting tile after tile on the back wall of the smaller office. More automatic fire sounded off and seemed to come from the direction of the front door of the main office. With his ears now ringing, Smith peeked around the corner and saw three of the Black Water security officers with smoking M4’s pointed at the two Iraqis that now lay on top of the blue cover-alls, their rags soaked in blood. No one appeared to be firing, but Smith could not tell, his hearing muted.

The taller of the three security officers stood over Smith, who was now sitting in one of the big back office chairs. Smith was trying to read his lips and had pretty much figured out what was going on from what Cowboy, the man’s call sign and the only thing Smith recognized him as, was mouthing to him.

Apparently some insurgents had paid the maintenance crew (Iraqis hired to clean the hotel and surrounding area) to retrieve visitors’ passes and id’s so they could slip through security at the gate. Once inside they took a chance on being able to secure weapons from the Arms Room by using concealed razor blades to kill the lone guard and get the keys. Following an RPG attack from four locations surrounding the outer perimeter, the six terrorists began an inside assault, killing everyone they met. The attack had been successful up to this point with twelve more insurgents managing to scale the wall to the rear of the camp; six more who tried crossing the river to the front never made it over that wall. The three Smith had just aided in killing were supposedly the last ones that were inside the borders. However, an outer attack from RPG’s and random gunfire still continued, and Cowboy said the Ambassador had made the call to evacuate.

Smith wiped his forehead with his hand trying to physically remove the mental fog that seemed to have settled there. He could finally hear what Cowboy was saying and the pieces were starting to fit together. He needed to focus.

Smith looked at the other two Black Water guys. He knew their faces. The skinny one came around a lot to talk to Sgt. Johnson and the chubbiest of the three had an accent that could have been misconstrued as British, but he was from Louisiana. Cowboy had a full beard and towered over just about everybody, especially Smith who was only 5 feet 10 inches tall. None of the Black Water specialists looked like they would be hard core soldiers. They were.

Matt, Smith looked like he was talking to the floor.

Who? Cowboy asked.

Nicoletti is still in the room. Room 219.

We’ll check it out, he motioned to the other two with his thumb.

Smith pulled two more magazines for the 9mm out of the weapons locker. He looked at the M16 and decided he felt more comfortable with the handgun. With the pistol at the ready, he was not taking any chance that Cowboy was right about them all being dead; Smith followed the specialists out the door and into the hallway. They made a right and picked up a slight jog until they reached room 219.

The chubby guy kicked his heavy boot flat against the door right next to the handle and it exploded open revealing the short corridor that led into the room. Two ruck sacs and a duffel bag blocked the passage. Cowboy entered the corridor first. He stepped over the duffel bag that lay sideways and stretched from wall to wall. When he reached the corner he took a kneeling position. Smith watched from the hallway as Cowboy inched into the room. The M4 rifle Cowboy was holding was now slung across his back and he was leading with his H and K 45. He suddenly stood up and disappeared around the corner. Skinny and Chubby followed quickly. Smith entered and closed the door behind him.

Cowboy knelt beside Nicoletti, who was leaned against the wall next to Smith’s bunk. He looked around and pulled a brown t-shirt from a nearby laundry bag. Smith heard the shirt ripping, but he was looking in the opposite direction, gathering together pictures of the team and their families and stuffing them in his black backpack he had pulled from underneath his bed. Nicoletti took a deep breath through his teeth and made a hissing sound.

Are you alright? Smith was really concerned for his friend. It did not show.

I’ll live, he was still gritting his teeth. I walked out on the balcony to burn one and got hit right away. It had to be a sniper. Got me twice before I knew it.

Blood soaked Nicoletti’s brown t-shirt and ran down his left arm. He had been shot in his left bicep and just above his left hip. The bicep was the second shot. It caught him as he was turning.

I’m grabbin' some pictures. Anything you wanna keep? Smith wanted to salvage as much as possible.

Fuck it. Don’t really need none of that shit, he had good reason to be angry. We all were.

After Nicoletti was bandaged as good as it was going to be, Cowboy hoisted him up; he wedged himself under Nicoletti's left arm, which was now tied off at the top with a strip from the brown t-shirt. Smith noted that it was his brown t-shirt. Another wad of shirt was taped to the left side of his lower abdomen.

Cowboy felt blood begin to leak through the back of his shirt, We gotta get him some help. He’s losing a lot.

Skinny and Chubby nodded in agreement. Smith strapped the backpack on and picked up the pistol he had laid on top of the television.

We’ll head to the roof, Cowboy talked like he didn’t have a 6 foot 1, 210 pound Italian hanging on his shoulder. Blackhawks are already evacuating from up there. We should be the last.

Smith thought to ask about the rest of his team. He decided he did not want to know the answer right now. Nicoletti was the only thing important for now

Skinny led the charge back down the hallway, moving fast, his M4 at the ready. Cowboy dragged Nicoletti behind him, followed by Smith with Chubby bringing up the rear. Chubby moved semi sideways; so, he could keep watch behind them. There were two stairwells that led to the third floor, one on either side of the small foyer in front of the office door. The hallway continued on past the stairs for another thirty feet and ended at a door that led outside to a