Whether Kyle Clady really did kill six Wolves last night is irrelevant. Like he just told him, the men outside think he did, and that is all that matters.
Clearly, they didn’t track him out to a tiny motel in the desert with the intent of talking to him. They aren’t investigators merely wanting to understand what happened and why.
They are men that are used to arriving en masse and overwhelming their opponents, taking what they want.
And at the moment, they want blood.
“We’ve got to head this off,” Marsh says. “Right now, before they really get going.”
Jerking his focus away from the door, Tinley stares with eyes wide. “And how the hell do we do that?”
Marsh pulls in shallow breaths through his nose. He wills his pulse to slow, his thinking to clear.
“They don’t know we’re cops,” he says. “The car out there is unmarked.”
A few feet away, Clady creeps back from the corner of the bed. Body raised just a couple of inches off the floor, only his hands and feet touch the carpet. Like some sort of possessed being from a horror film, he twists himself backward.
Movement clearly laced with intent, though right now Marsh can’t let that concern him. His focus has to be on triage, dealing with the most immediate threat.
Pulse continuing to thrum through his temples, Marsh pushes his gun into his left palm. With his right, he draws out his cellphone and thumbs the first speed dial.
A moment later it is answered by a gruff male voice that says simply, “Dispatch.”
“This is Detective Malcolm Marsh, Central District, requesting immediate backup at the Valley View Inn & Suites in Santee. Officers in extreme peril.”
The man begins to respond, his voice sounding out over the line. Cutting him off, Marsh drops his phone to the floor, returning his grip to the gun.
Based on the drive out, he would imagine assistance is at a minimum seven minutes away.
Time the status quo won’t currently allow.
Motioning to Tinley, he says, “Come on.”
Keeping himself low to the ground, Marsh duckwalks toward the front wall. Covering the short expanse in just a couple of steps, he falls sideways against the cheap wallpaper. His shoulder lands flush along the narrow strip between the door and one of the windows.
Across from him, Tinley does the same. Body bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, he positions himself on the opposite side of the door.
Gun in hand, he waits, sweat visible on his features.
“Okay, now what?” Tinley whispers.
Twisting his focus back toward the opposite wall, Marsh watches as shadows begin to move through the bright lights aimed in at them. Movement that hints the Wolves have climbed off their motorcycles and are about to take action.
“Wolves!” Marsh calls. Lifting his chin, he bellows as loud as he can to be heard over the rain. “This is Detective Malcolm Marsh with the San Diego Police! We have Kyle Clady in custody!”
Pausing, Marsh stares across at his partner. He gives the Wolves a moment, waiting for any form of response.
None comes his way.
“We’re coming out!” Marsh calls. “We need you to stand down and let us pass. Is that understood?”
There is the faint sound of a voice responding, though Marsh can’t make out what is said. Blotted by the continued patter of the rain, it is there and gone.
Casting his eyes to the side, Marsh takes in Clady. Having backed himself up to the nightstand by the bed, he waits on hands and knees. His focus is aimed on the front windows, body poised like a sprinter about to explode from the blocks.
Opposite Marsh, Tinley rests with his gun raised by his shoulder. Wrists flat to his chest, the barrel points straight at the ceiling.
“What do you think?” Tinley whispers.
Marsh flicks his gaze again to the shadows dancing across the back wall. In an ideal situation, he wouldn’t have to choose. Backup would be close enough that they could wait it out. Or the men outside would be reasonable enough to stand down.
Neither is likely now.
“You’ve got the handle,” Marsh says, motioning with his chin to the horizontal latch a few feet away. “Crack it open, lead with your badge.”
Pressing his lips tight together, Tinley nods. His right hand drops from his firearm. Digging into his jacket pocket, he extracts his badge, a thin silver chain dangling from the end of it.
Fingers gripping it like talons around the edge, he looks at Marsh. His chin dips just slightly as he reaches for the latch, pressing it down with the side of his hand.
Cracking the door just a few inches, he snakes his arm out through the opening. Waving the badge, he calls out, “SDPD!”
As the door pulls back, Marsh creeps out behind it. Knees flexed, he moves to fall in behind Tinley.
Putting him in the optimal spot to catch his partner as the first gunshots ring out, their impact driving the man back into the room.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The instant I hear that first familiar sound of gunfire, my reptilian brain takes over. Years of ingrained response pushes to the surface, my hand immediately shooting under the bed. Not bothering with trying to fumble for the handle, I grasp the top of the gun case and drag it out. Flipping the single dial left out of sequence on the three-digit combination lock, the Mark 23 is out and in hand in under three seconds.
Perched on my knees, I press my feet back into the nightstand behind me and drive myself forward. Chest rising no higher than a couple feet off the ground, I fling my body toward the front of the room.
On my right, Marsh falls flat to his back. Tangled in his arms is Tinley, the man’s chest shot to pieces. Mottled with at least two entry wounds, dark blood splashes down the front of his jacket. Streaking fast over the nylon material, it streams down either side, dripping onto Marsh and the carpet.
Using a modified bear crawl, I bound past them. Leaping forward, I catch the edge of the door and fling it shut, the wood slamming hard against the frame.
No more does it mash shut than the sound of a handful more bullets can be heard thudding into it. To either side, glass breaks, the tinkling sound threaded with shards smashing to the floor.
Balanced on my knees, I assume the same spot Tinley was in less than a minute ago. Ear attuned to the sounds of incoming fire, the smells of gunpowder and blood find my nostrils. My heart rate slows.
All focus winnows inward.
For the better part of a minute, the shooting continues with abandon. Without aiming or intention of slowing, the Wolves hammer the front of the room. Concentrating on the door and windows, they do as much damage as possible, ripping away the glass and curtains covering the openings.
Cool air and rain streams in.
Body curled up on one knee, I wait. Knowing I am safe behind the concrete and stucco walls of the aging structure, I concentrate on the sound of the incoming rounds, pausing as they eventually begin to slow.
Only then do I make my move.
Using my knee as a pivot, I spin out to the right. Extending the Mark 23 before me, I nestle it just inside the bottom corner of the shattered window.
My first shot goes directly at one of a pair of muzzle flashes I see. Aimed right at it, I pull back twice in quick order, a pained cry confirming a hit.
Jerking it two inches to the side, I fire at the spot of a second muzzle flash, the position of the bright light seared into my vision. Rattling off two more quick rounds, I swing the front tip of my gun back into the space between them.
One more round I squeeze off, puncturing the bright front headlamp separating them.
Barely do I see the light go out before diving back against the wall as another flurry of bullets pepper the front of the structure. Clustered tight to where I just was, I keep myself well below the sightline of the window.
Gun clutched in my right hand, I resume the stance I held earlier, as little of myself in contact with the floor as possible. Moving fast in the o
pposite direction, I scramble past the door, headed for the window on the far side.
In my periphery, I can see Marsh has worked himself free. Up on top of his partner, he is trying to apply pressure to the wounds.
He is yelling, though I hear none of it, my entire focus on the world outside.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Where the hell the truck came from, Byrdie doesn’t have the slightest clue. How it managed to get turned around and aimed back his direction is equally a mystery, chalked up only to the head start it had while he was waiting for Snapper to make up his mind.
Even how it was able to get so close before flipping on the headlights without him suspecting a thing is unknown, left only to speculation about the rain and his being distracted and whatever else.
None of which changes the facts of his predicament in the slightest.
Six minutes after leaving the Valley View, Byrdie’s tires were positioned in the center of the road. Looking to avoid the deep trenches worn into the lanes and the water resting in them, he straddled the dashed middle line.
Wipers beating as fast as they could, he flicked his gaze to either side. Fighting to ferret out any hiding places the truck might have gotten to, only occasionally did he bother glancing up.
By the time he even saw the enormous rig bearing down on him, there was no time to plan. No thoughts of turning it into a game of chicken or trying to whip around and follow the vehicle back.
All he was left with was pure instinct. A split-second decision steeped in both the weather conditions and simple physics.
There was no way he could hope to survive a collision with a truck of that size. The lift on it alone would ensure his demise, the front bumper level with the roof of the car he was in.
Jerking the steering wheel to the left, the torrent of water resting in the grooves of the road had taken over. Tires unable to maintain contact, the small vehicle had started to hydroplane. Rotating in a circle down the middle of the road, it managed three full rotations, oblivious to Byrdie fighting to straighten the vehicle.
The journey had ended abruptly as the passenger side tires spilled over the side of the road. Sinking into the softened mud and sand falling away from the berm, no amount of laying on the gas would wrench it free. Nor could any effort to rock it out, each attempt only managing to wedge it deeper into the spongy ground.
Still folded into the front seat of the sedan, Byrdie sits at an angle. His right hand is extended, bracing himself in the front seat.
In his left is his phone, the device pressed tight to his cheek.
No way does Byrdie want to be making this call. An inordinate amount of the shit he’s been dealing with the last couple of days can be traced directly back to his letting Clady slip past him once.
Now he has to somehow inform the others that it has happened again. That not only has he let the friend and the women get by him, but they are headed back toward the Valley View at a high rate of speed.
Folded up in the front seat of the car, Byrdie’s features twist up into a scowl. He stares out through the front windshield, the wipers still fighting to keep the glass cleared of falling rain.
He exhales slowly, waiting as the line connects and begins to ring.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Detective Malcolm Marsh is aware of the gunfight going on around him. He saw Kyle Clady leap past him and slam the door shut. Heard the volley of shots destroy the windows and curtains across the front of the room. Is aware of Clady now working his way back and forth, returning fire and keeping the Wolves at bay.
But his focus is on Tinley.
“Come on,” Marsh mutters. “Stay with me, Mark. Stay with me.”
Since being driven back by those initial rounds, Tinley has not said a word. His eyes have reduced to slits, his mouth gaping. All color seems to have fled from his cheeks as blood sluices from the pair of gunshots to his chest.
Perched on his knees, Marsh leans forward over his partner. Using his weight as pressure, the heel of his left hand is mashed into one of the wounds.
In his right is his cellphone, snatched up off the floor where he’d left it after calling dispatch. Blood streaks mar the clear plastic screen as he bypasses going to the call log, instead hitting the single red button on the home screen.
Flipping it to speakerphone, he drops it flat onto Tinley’s stomach. As soon as it is free from his grasp, he presses that hand into the opposite wound, trying in vain to stem the bleeding.
Whether or not the decision to try and get the Wolves to stand down earlier was correct is moot. All he can do now is fight to keep his partner breathing, hoping that Clady will keep them all alive until help arrives.
“911, what is your emergency?” a woman that sounds too robotic to be real answers.
“Officer down!” Marsh yells, twisting his body a few inches closer to be heard over the line. “I repeat, officer down! Taking extreme fire at the Valley View Inn & Suites in Santee. Request backup and med-evac units immediately.”
“Roger that,” the woman replies. Gone is the previous tone, replaced by something matching the urgency being piped in at her. “Alerting all units now. ETA, four minutes.”
Sweat rides down Marsh’s smooth head. It stripes across his forehead and seeps into his eyebrows. Drips from the tip of his nose.
“Four minutes,” he mutters. “He doesn’t have four minutes!”
Not wanting to remove the pressure he is applying, Marsh doesn’t bother trying to catch the phone as it slides across Tinley’s stomach. Falling to the floor, it bounces to the side, the woman’s voice still echoing out.
Leaving it go, Marsh jerks his head to the side. He scans the front of the room, hearing as bullets continue to mash into the door and stucco front.
A few feet away, Clady is perched in the far corner of the room. Resting on one knee, he extends his weapon before him, opening up a second round of return fire. A small handful in total, he squeezes them off one after another, taking advantage of his new position before dropping back flat to the ground.
“You alright?” Marsh yells, staring across the floor.
For the first time since the Wolves arrived, Clady looks directly at him. Eyes glowing, he blinks twice, forcing the words to register, before replying, “I’m almost empty. Got at least four more still out there, and they’re starting to close in.”
Jerking his attention from Clady to the windows, Marsh listens as the main target of the bullets has now shifted. Pushed to the side, they aim at where Clady was just firing from, shots tearing through the open window. Hitting the sheetrock at an angle, they tear long gouges into the wallpaper, drywall dust rising into the air.
It is impossible to know how many men first rolled up. Purely judging by the number of headlamps that were aimed at the windows, Marsh would say at least six or seven, though possibly as many as nine or ten.
If four remain, that means Clady has already gotten a decent chunk.
Not that what is left wouldn’t be more than sufficient to finish the job.
“Can you get to my gun case by the bed?” Clady asks. “I have another magazine in there.”
Twisting his gaze in the opposite direction, Marsh peers around the corner of the bed. Pressed up tight against the nightstand is a small metal gun case, the top propped upright. More than six feet away, there is no way for him to get there without leaving his partner. Relinquishing the grip he has on the man’s chest, letting precious blood continue to leak out.
“Too far,” Marsh yells, jerking back the opposite direction. “What are you firing?”
“.45s!”
“Shit,” Marsh mutters, the extra magazine on his belt loaded with .40s for his Glock 22.
A dim bit of dawning sets in as he jerks his gaze across the floor. Swinging it from side to side, he finally finds what he is looking for, the item lying just past the opposite corner of the bed.
In the initial melee of Tinley being blown back into the room, Marsh had lost hold of his gu
n.
Afterwards, he hadn’t thought to retrieve it, immediately looking to assist his partner.
Raising his gaze back to the windows, Marsh takes in the tattered remnants of the curtains blowing back at an angle. He feels the mist of rain and the cool evening air on his face.
Rounds continue to hit the front of the motel, trying to chew their way through. A few voices can be heard mixed in, instructions yelled among the parties outside.
Any moment, they will arrive. They’ll get close enough to see down over the sills of the windows and be able to mow them all down.
In no way does he want to even consider this.
Just five minutes ago, he was here to arrest Clady.
Still, right now there is no choice. If he wants to survive, if there is to be any chance of his partner surviving, it is the only way.
Blood-rimmed fingers still splayed across Tinley’s chest, Marsh rocks his weight forward. Raising his right foot beneath him, he extends it to the side.
The first two attempts come up empty. On the third, his sole connects solidly with the butt of the weapon, sending it across the threadbare carpet to Clady’s outstretched hand.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I’ve already pulled the trick of ducking from one window to the other. They’ll expect it a second time, as exhibited by the equal dispersion of rounds across the breadth of the room. No longer trying to cluster their approach, they’ve gotten smarter.
The four remaining men are fanned out. Their shots are staggered, preventing me from finding a lull.
And they’re steadily getting closer.
Tucked between the door and the window on the right side of the room, I have the Mark 23 in my left hand. Given my preferences, there is no question it would be on my dominant side. Considering there are only two rounds remaining though, I need to be prudent.
Two quick pulls, and it’s getting cast aside.
Gripped tight in my right hand is Marsh’s Glock. A weapon I’ve fired only a time or two ever, the mechanism seems to be pretty basic.
Battle Cry Page 13