Chapter 6

Max stepped out of the Jeep Grand Cherokee SRT-8 and surveyed the mining site. His muscular frame cast an imposing shadow on the rocky parking lot. Through his dark tinted aviator sunglasses he noted the worthless guards doing their best to look competent. The Mole, the reason for Max's unannounced trip to this wretched site, was slinking behind the four pickup trucks the workers used to travel between the nearby town of Eagles Nest and the mine.

Like the rest of the miners, he was hired because of his dubious moral fiber and easily corruptible nature. This made The Mole cheap labor since no one else would hire him, but it also created certain, predictable problems. While no other type of miner would ever work for an operation like theirs, it did mean, as head of security, Max had to be extremely watchful of the employees.

Max could hardly blame the guards for their listlessness. Day in and day out it was an incredibly boring job. However, it was their job to perform. After today, he was certain they would start paying much closer attention. "Squeaky wheel gets the greasy bullet," Max eyed the man who was trying his best to turn invisible.

Max felt under his Hugo Boss suit coat jacket for the reassuring feel of his fifty caliber Desert Eagle semi automatic. Like the suit and the Jeep, the gun was excessive, but nothing made a person come around to his way of thinking faster than the chrome plated fifty-caliber hand cannon pointed between their eyes.

The man playing the role of Max preferred a smaller FN Herstal Five-SeveN pistol, like the one tucked into his ankle holster, but the Desert Eagle had become his trademark, a core component of Max's character, and Max owned it.

"Gather the other miners," Max ordered the two guards. "Bring them up forcefully if you have to. Now!" The guards nodded, rushing to obey the order, a fearful look in their eyes.

"You!" thundered Max, removing the Desert Eagle from its shoulder holster and pointing it at The Mole. "Over there," he commanded motioning with the barrel toward a flat spot on the edge of the rocky parking lot. Max pulled a cinnamon flavored toothpick from his breast pocket, stuck it in his mouth and chomped down menacingly.

The Mole knew his number was up. No one would mourn his passing or even think of reporting the incident to the police. Half of the miners were on the run from the law as it was.

The others emerged from the darkness at gunpoint. Each fearfully observing the newcomer and the gleaming pistol. Max kept the gun trained at The Mole, but turned his head slightly to address the assembled group of scraggly rejects. "I will no longer tolerate theft of company property. You steal from the company you steal from me," he said in a quiet voice tinged with malice.

"If I ever have to come back again, there will be a new crew in your place the very next day and no one will ever find your bodies or care what happened to you. Do you understand!" he thundered at the assembled men. Observing their cowed, silent faces, Max twirled the pistol around his index finger, once, twice, three times. It stopped mid spin. Max instantly transformed his body into a professional firing stance.

The silence was shattered by the deafening report of the Desert Eagle. All eyes turned from Max to the condemned man. The Mole dropped where he stood, half his head splattered across the tundra behind him.

"Clean that shit up," Max ordered the guards. "And get back my stolen property. That rat bastard probably swallowed it. Use your imaginations to figure out how to get it back," he paused to let his words sink in.

"I better not see another miner stealing my property. Understood?" The sullen guards nodded and went to work cleaning up the mess. "The rest of you assholes get back to work!" Max growled at the miners. They rushed to comply. Satisfied, Max turned back toward the Jeep and allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile. "That ought to keep everyone in line for a while," he said as he re-holstered the pistol.