Regret No More

by Seb Kirby

  Then Miles spotted the Ferrari in his driver mirror. “They’re behind us and closing.”

  I looked back through the now-open rear window and could see Heller holding the gun out of the Ferrari passenger window, taking aim at us.

  Miles threw the Land Rover into a sharp left that took us off West 6th and onto Baylor Street, a side street leading to West 5th. Behind us the Ferrari made the same turn and began closing with Heller again taking aim. Halfway along Baylor, at the junction with West 5th, the traffic lights were red and staying that way.

  We did not have to make a choice at the lights.

  Behind us Mordini and Heller were closer now. Heller took aim once more and fired. We felt the Land Rover lurch as the rear passenger tire was hit.

  As Miles fought to keep enough control to steer the Land Rover, we crashed through the intersection and avoided collision with the onrushing vehicles on 5th only because the startled oncomers switched lanes and made drastic corrections to their plans. I just had time see a pickup truck and a coupe make a glancing collision that sent both vehicles spinning.

  Miles had no real control. Still traveling at high speed, the Land Rover had taken up a trajectory of its own.

  He stabbed the brakes and there was no response. He shouted, “Brakes are gone!”

  The Land Rover exited Baylor and crossed West 5th on a forty-five degree path that took it through the parking lot of a brown tile roofed restaurant standing close to the Consulado General de Mexico building,

  Beyond the parking lot stood a tall, dilapidated, graffiti-covered building clad in corrugated iron sheeting, sides and roof. The direction of travel meant that the Land Rover was going to run straight into the side of the building.

  Reyas braced himself in the front passenger seat by bending double and clasping his hands over his head. When Miles did the same, I followed suit in the back passenger seat.

  The Land Rover crashed into the graffiti-covered wall in a deafening rage of twisted metal and broken glass. The corrugated iron sheeting crumpled, deformed like crazy, screamed out loud, twisted into an improbable shape and saved our lives. The relentlessness of our forward motion had been turned into a strange stillness by the enormity of the energy absorbed by the deforming wall.

  There was a moment of silence. Everything had come to a stop.

  We had survived the crash.

  Then the reality of the situation seeped back in.

  Mordini and Heller would be on us if we didn’t get out of the wrecked vehicle and get moving.

  Chapter 60

  Agent Craven cursed the decision he’d taken to get to the Town Lake compound by his own route when the rest of his team had insisted on going straight through town.

  These things happened when you were responding to disaster. No matter how good the training, even experienced agents were affected in the heat of the moment.

  The report that the compound housing the Ravitz family had been attacked while the majority of his team had been involved in the sting at the hotel designed to catch the perpetrator had come as a body blow. It would not be easy to explain and with that came the risk that the whole purpose of being here and playing the game out like this might unravel.

  The drugs trade out of Mexico that had served the Ravitz family in the past and Craven’s own involvement now would become known. He and most of his team would go to prison.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, he was now stuck in a tailback on a road you could depend on to be clear most of the day. A twenty-wheel delivery truck had broken down on a narrow section and there was no way through.

  He didn’t like doing this. Everything he did was aimed at being covert, at not attracting attention.

  Craven pulled out the emergency light unit and placed it onto the roof of his vehicle. He activated the flashing blue light and siren and began shunting the vehicle ahead. The irate driver leaned out of the off-side window and shouted back, “Hey, buddy!”

  Craven pointed to the flashing light. “Emergency! Pull over and make space.”

  There was just enough room to turn once the driver ahead had responded. Craven worked his way onto the opposite lane, turned and began to retrace his path.

  He would be at least fifteen minutes late. By the time he got out to the compound the show would be over. He should have listened to Debbie Miller who had told him it would be quicker through town. He could only hope his team wasn’t making mistakes without him.

  As Craven drew near to the compound it was clear to him that the message he’d received at the hotel had been an understatement. The roads were filled with response teams from the fire department, with ambulances, with police. A major incident had taken place, it was clear. Yet the front of the compound, where the gatehouse was housed, appeared to be untouched. That wasn’t good news. It meant the attack must have been on the family accommodation at the rear of the compound.

  Craven parked up and was about to climb out of the vehicle when the second bomb hit. He felt the vehicle rock as the blast wave from the explosion passed over him. If he’d stepped out of the SUV a moment earlier the shock wave would have collapsed his lungs.

  He collected himself and looked over at where the guardhouse had stood. It had been reduced to a rubble of broken concrete and twisted metal. The bodies of the rescue workers caught up in this second explosion were strewn around, dismembered. Fire crews and ambulance workers who’d been arriving when the blast took place but were distant enough to not be taken by it were arriving at the scene, trying to douse the flames, trying to comfort the dying.

  The reality of terror flashed through Craven’s mind. The second bomb, designed to kill and maim the rescuers, was a strategy available only to those who had surrendered any semblance of humanity. Yet these people walked amongst us.

  Could there be a third IED? He couldn’t prevent the thought from permeating his mind. He fought against the sense of shame that overcame him as he remained in his vehicle and watched the second wave of rescuers risk their lives.

  He busied himself on the radio, calling in to HQ, reporting the crime, calling for more backup but he knew the moment he’d decided not to get out of the vehicle and go to help the victims was a defeat that would stay with him for the rest of his life.

  Minutes passed. He didn’t know how many but it seemed like a long passage of time.

  He looked over at the debris of the compound once more and saw Agent Miller walking away from the place, holding by the hand a teenage girl.

  Craven slipped out of the vehicle and circled round to make it look as if he’d been involved in the rescue work. He picked up ash from the rubble and worked a little of it into his face and hair and onto his suit – not too much, not enough to make it look as if he’d put it there himself.

  He caught up with Miller.

  “Debbie. You’re safe.”

  Agent Miller stopped and looked at him. “You were late.”

  “You were right about the route.”

  “The second IED. We’d been here for less than ten minutes when it went off. Took out most of the team. Most of the rescue workers. I was lucky.”

  Craven tried to sound sincere. “It went off just as I arrived. I’ve been helping but there’s nothing much we can do. So much devastation.”

  “You did your best, sir.”

  “Did you find Ravitz?”

  Agent Miller glanced at the child. “This is Jenny. The Ravitz’s daughter. I found her in the garden at the rear of the compound. She’s the only survivor.”

  Chapter 61

  Shaken and bruised, I climbed out of the crashed Land Rover. Reyas and Miles followed suit and for a moment we stood there marveling that we had survived the impact with the corrugated iron wall.

  Heller and Mordini were fooled by the sudden exit of our vehicle from the highway but not for long. As we looked back, we could see their Ferrari approaching at speed from the direction of West 4th Street.

  We ran along the side of the corrugated iron shed and force
d our way through a broken fence leading on to a yard used to store old railway girders, track and concrete sleepers. An articulated mobile crane stood there unused, showing that someone, sometime, still carried out business from this place, if only to trade in scrap. The yard was a relic from when the railway meant something in this part of East Austin. A railway track remained, visible through the gaps in the fence on the far side of the yard, and from the look of it, the track was still in use.

  We ran through the yard and entered a covered area, now derelict, that had once stored items more important than those outside. The hundred-feet-high steel roof was still intact but corroded to a deep rust red with holes here and there that failed to keep out the bright sun. The walls on this side of the structure had long ago collapsed and the building was open to the elements on two sides. The two remaining walls, a back wall and the corrugated iron wall we had crashed into were responsible for keeping the building erect.

  I took a quick look behind and saw that Heller and Mordini had entered the yard and were running towards us. Heller raised the pistol and was seeking an opportunity to shoot.

  There was no choice but to run deeper into the storage shed towards the intact back wall even though we didn’t know if this was a dead end or not. I had a vision of being backed against that wall and all three of us being executed like cornered criminals.

  When we reached the back wall we found a hole big enough for a man to climb through. It must have been made by down-and-outs in order to gain entry into whatever was on the other side. We pushed on through the hole in the wall and emerged into a large, dark space.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the place. We had found our way into an abandoned railway station, now boarded up, unused for years.

  We stood close to a long abandoned ticket office, mired in dust and debris and with all its internal fittings removed. Ahead of us was an area where passengers had waited for the train on long benches, now broken and half-demolished. An old station clock with one of its fingers removed was stalled at some unknown hour. Advertisements from an earlier age were peeling from the walls, surrounded by graffiti that told of more modern activity. The homeless must use the area as a refuge. Here and there were the piles of black ash left from the setting of fires in winter. On the far side of the station, shafts of light shone through the boarded-up windows, suggesting there might be more than one way in and out of the abandoned station.

  There was a moment to think of a strategy as, outside, Heller and Mordini were trying to work out how we’d exited the yard.

  Reyas was clear. “It is not good, Senors. But we must stand and fight if we are to escape them.”

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He opened it to reveal a six-inch blade. “I can take out one of them with this. It is up to you two Senors to take out the other.”

  We searched for something we could use as a weapon. The best we could find were broken pieces of wooden seating that we could use as improvised clubs. The plan was to wait close to the hole in the wall that we’d used to enter the station and attack as our pursuers came through.

  I could hear them outside.

  It was Mordini. “You should give yourselves up. We will kill you quickly. Make us wait and we will make sure you have a slow death.”

  We made no reply.

  There was an ugly silence as both sides waited and listened.

  Mordini stepped through the hole first, a twelve-inch stiletto in his hand. Reyas moved with alarming speed, brushed aside the stiletto and used the switchblade to stab the Italian in the heart. It was a practiced kill.

  Heller was more cunning and remained outside as Mordini fell. He had Reyas in his line of sight and reached his arm through the opening and fired. The bullet hit Reyas in the throat.

  Miles brought the improvised club down on Heller’s outstretched hand. It was a well-aimed blow that caused the pistol to fall to the ground near me. I grabbed the gun and pointed it towards Heller who drew back and disappeared from sight.

  “I have the gun. I’ll shoot.”

  He called back. “And you have nowhere to go.”

  There was the daunting sound of a firearm being readied. Heller was carrying a second weapon and was preparing to use it.

  It was now a more equal fight. I had no weapons training but how difficult could it be? You pointed, you steadied, you squeezed the trigger, the gun fired and that was it. I could do that.

  I looked back to see that Miles had Reyas cradled in his arms. The Mexican was dying. His words came slowly as blood gargled in his throat. “Senor. Do this for me. Find my son, Luiz. Tell him about this. What you know. Help him.”

  He was sinking into unconsciousness. His eyes made one last plea towards Miles and the Mexican was gone.

  Miles looked over at me. “He should be remembered as a good man. No matter what he’s done in his life.”

  I didn’t know how long we had before Heller struck again but I knew we didn’t have long.

  “Leave him, Miles. You can’t do anything more for him now.”

  I had to get Miles to understand that Reyas had died and that waiting here in the abandoned station was going to be fatal for us both.

  “Miles. Leave Reyas. He’s gone. I’ll keep Heller at bay. Go see if there’s another way out.”

  Miles paused. He didn’t want to face the thought that we might leave the Mexican here and I thought for a moment he might choose to stay cradling the dead man in his arms. I was relieved to see my brother’s instinct for self-survival asserting itself.

  He closed Reyas’ eyes and laid the Mexican down on the dusty station floor. “OK. I’ll go and look.”

  It didn’t take long for Heller to make his next move.

  Acrid black smoke started to fill the station. It was coming from the shed outside. Heller must have drained the fuel and engine oil from the mobile crane in the yard and used it to set fire to the debris littering the other side of the wall. I was certain his plan was to smoke us out and kill us as we came coughing and choking back through the hole and into the yard. I was wrong. A wrecked railway trolley piled high with more of the burning debris came crashing through the hole in the wall. I realized then that the German planned to come after us under cover of the smoke now filling the air and making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead.

  I retreated as the burning trolley was pushed in further from behind, making it possible for Heller to enter the station.

  I couldn’t see where Miles was. I didn’t like the idea of our being separated like this. Heller could pick us off one by one. I was losing my bearings amongst the smoke, no longer sure which direction Heller would attack from. I had the pistol but it felt useless as I couldn’t see far enough to take aim.

  I could hear a shuffling movement, getting closer.

  I felt a touch on my shoulder from behind.

  It was Miles. He was coughing but still able to talk. “Jim, There’s a way out on the other side.”

  We moved as fast as we could, stumbling over the wreckage in the train station, feeling our lungs burn with the inhalation of the toxic fumes filling the place. Progress was slow but we made it to the far end of the station.

  Miles had found a window boarded up with the same corrugated iron sheeting used to clad the building. The sheeting had been prized open to provide another point of entry for the homeless who used the place.

  I gave them a silent thank you – their breaking and entering might just save our lives.

  Light streamed in as Miles pulled the sheeting open further. I looked through and, across the tracks, a brand new Amtrak station came into view.

  The new station had been built within a few hundred feet of the old. My hopes that we could escape soared as I saw a double decker Amtrak train standing at the station.

  The window exit was just large enough for a man to squeeze through.

  Heller wasn’t far behind us but we couldn’t see where he was.

  There wa
s a chance that the smoke the German had created could work to our advantage as visibility was lower where he was, nearer to the burning trolley. The danger was that we’d become targets now we’d let light in through the boarded-up window.

  A shot rang out and buried itself in the wall beside Miles.

  We realized we were not enough of a target in all this smoke. Until he could get nearer, at least, Heller was reduced to hoping that a lucky shot might hit one of us.

  I turned and fired until the last of the bullets was used. The pistol was then useless. I threw it in the direction of Heller in the pointless expectation that this might slow his progress.

  Miles squeezed through the window first and I followed as another missed shot from Heller bit into the window frame.

  Bright sunlight burned our eyes. We took in great gulps of clean air and fought against the need to rest and let the oxygen do its work of recovery. We knew better than to pause. Heller would be making his way through the smoke inside, searching out our point of exit.

  Across the tracks the early morning Amtrak train was readying to leave.

  We ran across the tracks, watched by the conductor who had stepped down onto the platform to check that the area was clear for the train to depart. He looked hard and long as we ran onto the platform and clambered aboard. He must have thought we looked like anything other than regular passengers but his wry smile told us he’d seen worse and that, in any case, we would have to reckon with him once the journey was underway. Nothing was worth allowing the 9.30 AM Texas Eagle to run behind schedule.

  We found seats on the upper deck and lay back wheezing and coughing after running with so much toxic smoke in our lungs.

  The doors closed and the train began pulling out en route for Taylor, TX.

  I looked back and saw that Heller had made it out of the abandoned station but was left stranded on the wrong side of the tracks. He could only watch as the Amtrak pulled away.