13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  “Logan Hirsch,” Steele replied. Shots thudded the ground near Steele and Hirsch.

  Brad spun to return fire, but the gun flashes were coming from farther away.

  The shooter, who must be Pittman, had moved out of the caves and into the valley that wound its way toward Brad’s house. Brad fired a burst of three shots and then rolled to his left.

  Bullets struck the ground where Brad had been. The shooter was on Brad’s turf. If he could keep herding him up the hill, Brad would catch up to him in the open.

  Also, the uphill climb favored Brad, and he barely lost a step in his sprint up the trail.

  Steele’s voice came over the radio. “Thanks, boss. I’ve got Hirsch. Pittman is all yours.”

  Brad clicked the mic and headed up the hill. He heard shouting from ahead, and then a half-dozen shots. He raced toward the shots. Two more shots rang out, followed by swearing.

  Brad rounded a corner and nearly knocked over Toscana. She was on her knees with her hands on Briscoe’s gut.

  “What happened?” Brad asked.

  “We were coming down the hill,” Toscana said. “We had slowed so Briscoe could catch his breath when a guy came around the corner and fired at us. We dove into the brush and then returned fire as he raced past.”

  “Not sure if we hit him.” Briscoe grunted. “Bastard got me, though.”

  “Where are you hit?” Brad asked.

  “Took one in the gut. Hurts like my innards are on fire.”

  Brad slipped off his pack and opened a zippered compartment on the side. He pulled out trauma dressing and applied it to Briscoe’s gut.

  “Toscana, keep the pressure on.”

  “Roger that. I’ve got EMS on the way.”

  “Kinda sucks, huh,” Brad said.

  “What?” Briscoe asked.

  “You finally wear your vest, and you get hit in the gut.”

  “Biggest mass,” Toscana said.

  “Stop gawking, rookie.” Briscoe twisted toward Brad. “Get that motherfucker.”

  Brad squeezed Briscoe’s shoulder. “Hang in there, old-timer.”

  Chapter Seventy-One

  The helicopter shuddered, and additional lights flashed on the console. Warning alarms sounded. The chopper vibrated from the failing engine. Zerr watched helplessly as Schantz held tight to the cyclic stick that had a mind of its own.

  After the rifle shots struck the helicopter, Schantz said they were okay—they’d make it to the airport.

  A few seconds later, Schantz said, “We won’t make it. I need to put it down. We’re over a residential area. There’s no place here. Too dangerous.”

  Schantz swung the chopper hard to the right.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Heading to the river.”

  “Can you land on water?”

  “Of course, I can.” Schantz glanced at Zerr. “Just not safely and we’ll sink.”

  “Then what?”

  “Unless I see a field large enough in the next minute, at least ditching in the river won’t put others in danger.”

  “And us?”

  “Make sure your seatbelt is tight.” He keyed his mic. “Dispatch, this is Air One.”

  “Go ahead, Air One.”

  “We are declaring an emergency. We won’t make it to the airport. We’re ditching in the Bow River—west of Crowchild Trail. There’s an island in the middle of the river. I’ll try to make that. Notify fire and EMS.”

  “Roger, Air One. Fire and EMS notified.”

  “Dispatch, this is Zerr, TSU.”

  “Go ahead, Zerr.”

  “I need you to do one more thing.”

  “Anything, name it.”

  Zerr made his request.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Sharma and Cook stood in the darkness beside the ambulance at the boat ramp near Louise Bridge. A light rain that threatened to turn to snow quickly covered their jackets. Cook shivered. “Why can’t we get better coats?”

  Sharma snorted. “Budget, my dear, budget.”

  “We need gear like the firefighters have.”

  “Sure. That would be fun squeezing into a bedroom wearing that gear. We would appear like the Michelin Man.”

  The fire department was backing the rescue boat into the river.

  “Can’t they do this quicker?” Cook slipped on her life preserver.

  “Read my mind,” Sharma said as he did the same.

  Finally, the boat engines roared to life. Two firefighters rushed over and grabbed some of their equipment. “Let’s go,” one of them said.

  The firefighters assisted Sharma and Cook into the boat, the engines rumbled, and they backed away from the launch. The boat swung around, the engines thundered, and they were thrust back into their seats.

  Cook worked through the problems in her head. Dispatch said a cop was shot, and so was a suspect. Sometimes these situations were complicated. Training said to treat the most severe first. The cops on the scene would want their own taken care of first, no matter how severe the injuries to the suspect. She played the scene both ways in her mind, then stopped. She’d know the right thing to do when she got there.

  The boat skimmed the water as it fought against the current. Occasionally the pilot made a quick turn, throwing them against one side of the boat or the other. Cook saw little in the darkness. The sky and water merged into a continual cloud of black.

  Somehow the boat pilot and the spotters navigated the river. They passed Twenty-Ninth Street, the road to Foothills Hospital, past Shouldice Park and under the Bowness Bridge. Then they swung to the west. The river was straight, and they accelerated.

  On the right, Cook saw red-and-blue flashing lights on the parallel Bearspaw Dam Road. The red lights of two ambulances followed behind. They would wait on the north bank. Cook and Sharma would need to assess and treat the patients and prepare them for the quick boat ride across the river to the ambulances.

  The engine slowed as the pilot guided the boat to the shore.

  Cook jumped off the boat and into the water. She couldn’t wait. Steele stood on the shore over a handcuffed man lying on his face.

  “He’s shot, but it’s minor.”

  “I’ll check him,” Cook said.

  “No.” Steele glared at them. “Briscoe is shot. He’s first.”

  “I’ll go,” Cook said. “Sharma can stay here.”

  Steele glanced at Cook. “Fine.”

  Cook called two firefighters. “Come with me.”

  She led them across the gravel shore to an opening in the trees and followed the well-worn path. They zigged and zagged through the trees. Ahead, she heard voices. They rounded a curve and came upon Toscana at Briscoe’s side, holding a trauma dressing on his stomach.

  Immediately Cook called to a firefighter. “He can’t walk. We’ll have to carry him out. Get a Stokes stretcher.”

  The firefighter called for help on his radio. Cook knelt beside Briscoe. “Shit, Briscoe. What happened?”

  “We bumped right into the shooter. He got a few shots off and hit me. Dumb luck.”

  “One shot?”

  “With a rifle,” Toscana said. “Split the skin and muscle open.”

  “Did you see intestines?” Cook asked.

  “No,” Toscana said. “Lots of bleeding. Coulter stopped and gave me the trauma bandage. I think the bleeding has stopped—well, slowed at least.”

  Cook slid her paramedic shears out of the hip holster and cut the uniform shirt. She opened the Velcro closures and slipped the chest plate of the ballistic vest off. Finally, she cut away the T-shirt—the trauma bandage was soaked. She got another trauma bandage from her kit, then removed the blood-soaked gauze.

  A firefighter stood over them and directed a flashlight beam toward the injury. In the light from the flashlight, she saw the bullet wound. More like a knife laceration across the abdomen. Deep enough to penetrate skin, fat, and muscle, but not deep enough to hit the intestines. She placed the fresh bandage over the wou
nd and taped it in place.

  As she finished establishing IV lines, four firefighters came around the curve. They set the Stokes stretcher next to Briscoe. They helped lift Briscoe into the basket stretcher. Cook covered Briscoe with blankets, and they set off, a firefighter at each corner of the cot.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Brad sprinted up the path, more determined than ever. Briscoe was family. As the anger brewed, he sprinted up the hill at a pace he had never achieved before. His jaw was set, his mind clear. The shooter would die.

  Brad crested the ridge, but Pittman was not in sight. Had he been so determined to get up the hill he’d passed the shooter? But surely the Pittman would have shot as he passed. No, he was still ahead. Brad darted past a fence post and then found himself at the lane to his house.

  Not on my land.

  Then he saw the Pittman stumble in the glow of the yard light—he spun toward the house. “Dispatch, shooter is headed toward my house.”

  Brad put everything into the sprint up the lane. As he rounded the corner, he saw Annie’s car in the driveway. Then the screen door slammed shut.

  “Dispatch, Pittman is at my house. Hostage situation.”

  “Coulter stand down. TSU is on the way. Coulter. Coulter.”

  Brad ripped the screen door off its hinges and leaped through the entryway into the kitchen.

  The sound of a gunshot blasted through the house, then a second shot.

  Fuck!

  Brad raced through the house and stopped at the door to Annie’s room. She sat with her back against the headboard—smoking shotgun pointed at Brad.

  “Whoa, Annie, it’s Brad.”

  She stared, frozen in time.

  Brad inched toward the bed. Annie didn’t move. Brad reached for the gun and took it from her hands.

  He glanced toward the end of the bed. A man lay slumped against the wall. Blood oozed from holes in his chest. Most of his head was splattered on the wall behind him. The close-range shotgun blast had obliterated his face. Brad knelt and took a .45 caliber Colt M1911 Automatic out of Pittman’s dead hand.

  Brad keyed his mic. “Dispatch, Coulter. Suspect down. Repeat, suspect down. My house. Send detectives, Crime Scene Unit, medical examiner, and Deputy Archer.”

  “Coulter, dispatch. Say the number of casualties.”

  “One DOA,” Brad said. “No other injuries here. Has EMS reached Briscoe yet?”

  “Roger, Coulter. EMS on scene with a fire rescue boat.”

  Brad sat on the bed. Annie still stared at the bedroom wall. He leaned in front of her and whispered, “Annie. Can you hear me?” She didn’t move. “Annie. It’s Brad. Can you hear me?”

  Her head slowly rotated toward him. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “I did it?”

  “Yes.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “You had no choice.”

  “I was so scared.” Annie leaned into his chest.

  “How did you know to be ready?”

  “Dispatch called me.”

  Brad pulled back. “What?”

  “Charlie was in the helicopter and heard you were chasing the shooter up the hill.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes with a sleeve. “He had dispatch call me and say to stay in my room. I thought of the shotgun and took it with me.”

  “Smart girl,” Brad said. “We might owe Charlie beers for the rest of our lives. But don’t tell him.”

  There was a loud thump from the back of the house. Brad drew his pistol and aimed it at the open door.

  Lobo flew through the opening and onto the bed. He climbed onto Annie’s chest and licked her face.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Sharma watched Cook and the firefighters head into the woods. He focused on his patient, but all he could focus on was Steele and his rifle.

  Sharma glanced up at Steele. “Can you lower your gun?”

  Steele stepped back a couple steps but kept the rifle ready. “Sorry, but you’ll have to get used to it.”

  “He’s hurt.”

  “I know.” Steele shrugged. “Brad shot him.”

  Sharma was surprised at the matter-of-fact way he said it. “At least take off the cuffs”

  Steele shook his head and pursed his lips. “Nope, not gonna happen.”

  “It’s difficult to assess him this way.”

  “Then don’t assess him. I don’t give a shit.”

  Sharma held out his hands. “What if he dies?”

  Steele raised his eyebrows. “Then hell has another occupant.”

  “Please.”

  “I know you have a job to do.” Steele’s shoulders sagged. “I get that, I do. But they killed at least six people and critically injured three others. I have no sympathy for him. He’s a murderer and I will not risk injury to you. His days of killing are over. If you treat him, whether he lives or dies, doesn’t affect me.”

  Sharma knelt by the patient in the gravel. His clothes were soaked, and he shivered uncontrollably. His face was scrunched into the gravel.

  “I’m a paramedic. My name is Amir.”

  “Let me die.”

  “I’m not gonna do that. What’s your name?”

  “Logan.” He spoke through gritted teeth.

  “Okay, Logan. I’m going to roll you onto your side. It will be uncomfortable because of the handcuffs.”

  Sharma glanced at Steele. “It’s okay, I got it.” Sharma rolled Logan onto his side, trying to keep him from going over onto the cuffs. “Where are you hurt?” He shone the flashlight over Logan.

  “My left shoulder.” He tried to turn his head to see Steele behind him. “Bastard shot me.”

  “Not me,” Steele said.

  “Okay, Logan. I see a wound in your shoulder. Anywhere else?”

  “My right arm.” He tried to move his arm closer to Sharma, but the handcuffs stopped his motion. “Fucking dog bit me and dragged me here.”

  “The dog?” Sharma glanced around.

  “Yeah. They sent a dog after me.”

  “That’s kinda close to the story,” Steele said. “He shot at me. He missed. Coulter shot him. He didn’t miss. Shithead here fell into the river and was floating away. Lobo saved his life and dragged his sorry ass to the shore. He would have drowned if it wasn’t for Lobo.”

  Sharma sat back on his haunches. “Where is the dog?”

  “I don’t know.” Steele shrugged. “Possibly searching for Coulter. He raced off after he pulled this shithead out of the river.”

  “Your wounds don’t appear serious,” Sharma said. “The bites are easily treated. I’ll clean your wounds, bandage the shoulder, and put your arm in a sling. You’ll be fine.”

  “Fix him up so we can get out of here,” Steele said. “I need him checked at the hospital, then to jail where he’ll rot for the rest of his sorry-ass life.”

  Sharma ignored Steele and treated Logan. “He’s ready to go. I’ll take him to the boat.”

  “Not yet,” Steele said. “He can wait. Briscoe is the first one to cross.”

  “They’ll be up there for a while. They have to carry him out. We can be across and back before they get Briscoe out.”

  “Maybe, but we’ll wait.”

  Sharma glanced up, preparing his argument, but when he saw the fire in Steele’s eyes, he decided they could wait.

  About ten minutes later, firefighters carrying Briscoe broke out of the trees and headed to the river. They lifted the stretcher into the boat. Toscana and Cook climbed in after him.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  The running lights of the helicopter reflected off the water as they spun wildly. Schantz fought the cyclic control without success. It appeared the tail of the chopper was in charge. The spinning increased, and Zerr shook his head to get rid of the dizziness.

  “Brace for impact.”

  Zerr eyeballed the cockpit. Nothing to grab to brace. He hoped the seatbelt held, and the chopper survived the impact. They were spinning faster and dropping like a rock. He had no
idea how high they were when the engine gave its last sputter.

  They hit the ground. It felt like thousands of pounds pushed down on him, his head pressed on the spine, spine collapsed, his entire body shoved into his pelvis.

  Metal screeched and sparks flew as the rotors struck the rocks. The windshield exploded. Then he was flung to the right, and pain ripped through his shoulder and neck. The chopper rocked several times before coming to rest on its side. In the dim light, Zerr saw Schantz, motionless in his seat, held in place by the seatbelt.

  Then pain. His neck was electrical shocks of pain. His right hip sent waves of agony across his lower body. He couldn’t feel his right shoulder or arm. Zerr could not move. He fought to remain conscious. He was vaguely aware of the sounds of traffic and sirens, then darkness.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Brad and Annie stood outside as cops unrolled police tape in a large circle around the house. His house was a crime scene. Again. Annie leaned close, and Brad put his arm around her. He felt her chest heave with the sobs she was trying to hold in.

  His gut twisted into knots. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or angry. He’d come so close to another person in his life dying.

  Lobo rubbed against Annie’s leg, his way of providing love and support.

  Archer had responded when the report of the snipers first came in, so he was at the farm in minutes and took command. The Crime Scene Unit wasn’t here yet. They would be busy with the house, the location of Briscoe’s shooting, processing the car, and probably another half-dozen locations. Brad wanted to see the car. How did they do the shootings? He also wanted to get Hirsch in an interview—alone. He wasn’t sorry Pittman was dead, but a few minutes alone with him would have been therapeutic.

  Archer strode over to them. “Annie, I’m sorry you had to shoot Pittman. But you did the right thing. There is no doubt about that.”

  Annie squeezed tighter to Brad but didn’t reply.

  “When you’re ready,” Archer said, “go to headquarters. Detectives need to interview both of you. Normally we’d separate you, but in this case, it’s unnecessary.”