by Neil Turner
“You any good with a gun?” Max asks me.
“Remember Papa’s position on guns?”
“Right,” Jake says with a snort. “So, the answer is no.”
“That’s right,” I admit in frustration.
Max watches the exchange, then turns to Jake. “Shotgun.”
Jake thinks for a long moment before he nods and turns to me with a look of reluctant resignation. “I don’t like this at all.”
“No choice,” Max says.
Jake doesn’t look convinced as he continues to study me. “Involving you may turn out to be the biggest mistake I ever make, but we could use an extra body. If we can’t get a fossil or two organized, I guess you’re in.”
Max reaches over and clasps my forearm in an iron grip while he stares hard into my eyes. “You’ll do exactly what we tell you to do. That shotgun will be for self-defense and only for self-defense.”
Jake nods in agreement. “Understood?”
I lick my suddenly dry lips and nod. “Understood.”
Jake stares me down for a long moment, as if he’s assessing my response and deciding if I can be counted on in a pinch. Whatever he sees in my eyes seems to satisfy him.
“We’ll need wheels to get Brittany away in a hurry if we end up springing her,” he tells me.
“We’ll leave you with the car and the shotgun,” Max adds.
I swallow. Mama always warned me to be careful about what I volunteered for. This certainly fits the bill, yet I don’t regret my impulsive offer to go along, no matter how much the prospect of what may lie ahead terrifies me.
Jake steps back from the chair and mutters, “We need our fucking heads examined.”
Max shoots him a sardonic look before he finally releases my arm. “Just point and shoot that thing if you need to,” he tells me matter-of-factly.
I nod slowly. “As long as Brittany isn’t around.”
They exchange a concerned look. At the mere thought of me with a gun, or at the idea that I might end up in a situation in which Brittany is nearby and I have to shoot?
“Right,” Jake finally says. “But if Brittany is there, she should be coming out with us.”
“And if you’re not with her?” I ask.
They stare back at me without comment.
I realize that will only happen if Jake and Max have been taken out or are otherwise occupied, leaving me alone to face one or more armed gangsters.
“That shouldn’t happen,” Jake assures me.
Shouldn’t.
Chapter Thirty
It hasn’t taken me long to disregard my first directive of the night. It’s been almost an hour since I dropped off Jake and Max on the shoulder of a secondary road. They are now making their way through several hundred yards of forest to our target, an old country farmhouse a few miles into Wisconsin. My instructions were to drive around the back roads while they crept through the woods. I did so for about ten minutes before my nerves got the better of me. What if I got into an accident or attracted attention from the local cops? What if the beaten-up old 2009 Dodge Journey Max had requisitioned from his son broke down? Max assures me it runs much better than it looks, but the rust spots, dents, and scrapes adorning its oxidized black paint don’t inspire much confidence. Looking on the bright side, aside from the Illinois plates, it fits right into the neighborhood.
I’ve pulled into a little stand of bushes off the side of the road about three miles from our target. From here, the Journey should be pretty much invisible from the crumbling asphalt road—not that there’s much traffic. The evening air is cool and heavy with humidity. The rain has stopped for now and the sky is clearing, but the ground is still damp. Water drips from the trees, and there’s a little haze hanging ten or twelve feet in the air. It will develop into ground fog in the coming hours. I’ve stopped obsessively checking my watch. What’s the point in tracking every single minute that crawls by? For maybe the fiftieth time, I heft the shotgun and mimic aiming and shooting until the motion feels somewhat familiar—or at least not totally foreign.
It’s eleven thirty-seven when the tip of what will be a full moon finally edges above the horizon. Jake and Max should be in position; they’d timed their excursion through the woods to arrive just before moonrise so they’d have darkness for their approach and moonlight to operate with after arriving. As we were on the evening when we spirited Papa out of the country, we’re dressed head to toe in black, complete with ski caps pulled low over our foreheads and ears. Just like any other self-respecting SWAT team, we’re outfitted with the latest personal cell phones to coordinate our stealth mission. As if on cue, mine vibrates in my jacket pocket.
The text from Jake is a simple letter A. I don’t respond. I’m to keep off the phone unless some sort of emergency arises that Jake and Max absolutely have to know about—bad guys coming, tanks, the plague, that sort of thing. The text notifies me that Jake and Max are in position at the farmhouse. It also signifies that I’m to move to my initial post, which is a stand of trees in a turnout about two miles from the farmhouse. Our plan is a little threadbare from this point forward. Jake is carrying our one piece of technology, a compact directional listening device they hope will give them an idea of what’s happening in and around the farmhouse. We’ll see. Jake browbeat J.P. Duclos of the FBI into agreeing to give him a heads-up if the FBI Hostage Rescue Team deviates from its scheduled assault on Target One, with the understanding that the information was for his ears only.
“She’s gonna have my ass if she finds out you’re with us,” Jake had warned me in the car on our way here.
“J.P. is a woman?” I asked.
Jake nodded. “Yup.”
“I’ve never heard a woman called J.P. before,” I said. Rather stupidly, now that I think about it.
Jake smiled. “Exactly. She claims it helps the troglodytes to accept her bio and reputation without having to sort through their sexist baggage. Seems to work most of the time.”
Max had chuckled and told Jake, “When she finds out that we’re out here, she’ll have your balls, too.”
“If so, she’ll be the first woman to show any interest in them in years,” Jake retorted with a laugh.
The exchange had loosened the tension in the car for an instant, but not by much. I could use another break in the stress that begins to squeeze my chest when text B arrives a few minutes later, signaling that they’re ready to move. Time to relocate closer to the target property. With all lights off, including the interior and dashboard lighting—Max had gone so far as to pull a few fuses to make sure I couldn’t screw things up—I carefully back out of my hiding spot and drive to another turnout screened by trees. This one is within 400 yards of a gravel drive that leads to the farmhouse. Max also seems to have pulled the fuse for the rear-window defroster, so I’ve opened all the windows to keep the window clear and have the heater cranked up to keep me warm. I turn it off now so I can hear better. Once parked, I’ve been tasked with a quick recon to ensure there are no other vehicles lurking nearby and that no guards have been posted at the entrance to the property. I’m concerned there will be and that they’ll spot me. Then what?
After I maneuver the Journey into position, I can’t see a damned thing through the branches and bushes. My fingers snake across to the shotgun that rests on the passenger seat and close around it as I ease the driver’s-side door open. Max gave me a ten-minute lesson on how to load and fire the thing. It all seemed simple enough when there were no distractions, no sweaty palms, no shaking hands, and nobody pointing a weapon back at me. It doesn’t seem simple now. I work my way deeper into the trees and part some branches to have a look up the visible portion of the driveway leading to the house. All clear. Same for the intersection where the driveway meets the road. Aside from soaking my head in the bushes, so far, so good. No call to inform my partners is required. We’re operating on the principle that no news is good news. I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, creep back to the van,
slip inside, towel off, and peek at my watch.
Eleven fifty.
If all is well and the FBI team is on schedule, show time will be in five minutes. I’ll make my next move if and when Jake sends prearranged text C.
Jake Plummer is sweating in the damp, cool night air, despite being soaked from the waist down after the trek through the woods. He’s hunkered down behind a low stone wall about sixty feet from a back door that’s nestled under the rear porch of a white farmhouse. A single, bare incandescent light bulb casts a pool of light around the entrance. With his night vision fully engaged and moonlight filtering through the thin cloud cover, Jake has a decent view of the target building through a small pair of binoculars. The house isn’t particularly well kept up. The white clapboard siding is coated with a layer of grime. The aluminum-framed windows and standard steel door with a glass upper panel certainly look to be at least a couple of decades old. The earpiece from a parabolic directional microphone is tucked into his right ear. It’s capable of picking up sound from as much as 500 feet away. Jake slips the binoculars back into one of the generous leg pockets of his black tactical pants, then picks up the microphone and aims it across a cracked and chipped concrete patio at a sliding kitchen window. It’s cracked open an inch or two. He can hear men’s voices, but not clearly enough to make out what they’re saying or even to be certain how many voices there are. To add to the confusion, the flickering light behind the red-and-white-checkered kitchen curtains is almost certainly from a television, which may account for the voices.
At least we know someone’s in there, he thinks.
Max is in position covering the front door and a black, late-model Ford F-150 pickup truck that is parked about fifteen feet away from it. He and Jake are wearing earpieces that are attached to their cell phones. They’ve dimmed their screens to almost nothing by using settings Jake wasn’t aware of before Max showed him. Who would have guessed Max was a techie?
I hope to hell J.P. remembers to clue us in when they move on Target One, Jake thinks anxiously. That farmhouse is several miles outside Rockford, Illinois, about an hour west of Chicago. Even a few seconds’ advance knowledge might make all the difference if and when the shit hits the fan here. His thoughts then turn, as they often have tonight, to the third member of their team. Or, more accurately, he once again begins to worry about Tony Valenti, operationally and as a matter of conscience. Agreeing to include Tony on the operation went against all of Jake’s instincts. What the hell was he doing putting a civilian in harm’s way?
“Tony’s got more skin in the game than anyone,” Max had told him when he prevaricated over bringing Tony along. “He knows the risks.”
But does Tony really understand them?
“We need him, and I get the sense that he’ll rise to the occasion if he needs to,” Max had concluded.
Jake, thinking back to a year ago when Tony helped his father beat a murder rap, is confident Tony will try to. But going head-to-head against Luciano family soldiers in the wild isn’t quite the same thing as kicking the asses of a prosecutor or two in a courtroom.
Jake’s phone buzzes with a text from J.P. Duclos of the FBI: Moving now. Jake is in the process of forwarding it to Max and Tony when the directional mic feed erupts in his ear.
“Fuck! The cops are raiding Rockford!” a guttural voice exclaims from inside the house. So much for the FBI’s ability to jam mob communications.
“Let’s get the fuck outta here!” another man shouts.
“Fuckin’ right!”
“People inside,” Jake whispers into the microphone attached to the cord of his cell-phone earpiece. “At least two males. They know about the Rockford raid.”
“What about the girl?” the second and younger-sounding voice calls out.
“You know,” comes the reply.
What the hell does that mean? Jake wonders in frustration. He wedges the parabolic antennae between a pair of rocks to free his right hand and pulls a Glock pistol out of its shoulder holster. Against every impulse he has, he holds fast and waits, desperately hoping that he didn’t just hear an order to do away with “the girl,” who is almost certainly Brittany Valenti.
No joy, reads a new text from J.P. Duclos.
Jake thinks for only a fraction of a second before deciding to send a request for help. Am at Target Two, he texts. Joy here. He hopes that J.P., who Jake suspected and hoped was wise to his and Max’s plans, earmarked some assets to send to their aid if need be.
Jake ponders his next move. The bad guys already know they have company, so things will start hopping any minute. If he and Max get into a firefight trying to get Brittany out, they’ll probably need the Journey on short notice to make their escape, so it makes sense to move Tony closer. Doing so is a risk, but seconds saved could prove critical. If Tony goes where he’s supposed to and does what he’s been told to, he shouldn’t become a target.
Jake sends text C.
“Hey!” comes a voice from inside, “I got a guy on camera hiding behind the rock wall out back!”
That would be me, Jake realizes as a rush of adrenaline surges through him.
“How the fuck did that happen, asshole?” the deeper, older voice roars. “You watching porn again instead of monitoring the fuckin’ cameras?”
Thank God for porn, Jake thinks dryly while he calls Max and tries to tuck himself more tightly behind the meager protection of the two-foot-tall stone wall. Nobody inside is going to hear him and Max amid their bickering. “They know I’m out here,” he whispers to his partner. “Expect them to bug out any moment, probably shooting when they do. They mentioned a girl.”
“Is she going with them?”
“I don’t know. One said to the other, ‘You know what to do,’ whatever that means.”
“Fuck!” Max hisses, sounding every bit as impotent as Jake feels. “What’s our play?”
A very good question, Jake thinks. Go in? Let the bad guys get to the pickup truck if they try to move Brittany, then follow? Keep them from getting to the vehicle at all? Should he plan for FBI support?
“Jake?” Max whispers impatiently.
“Thinking.”
“Think fuckin’ faster.”
“They’re not taking that girl anywhere if I can help it,” Jake decides aloud. With the FBI now in play, he wouldn’t give a plug nickel for Brittany’s safety if these bastards get away again. “Don’t let them get in the car if you can stop them without hitting the girl.”
“Copy that.”
The night falls still for an interminable minute, during which Jake weighs the pros and cons of making a move of their own. Go? Don’t go? The decision is promptly taken out of his hands.
Gunfire erupts from the front of the house. Semiautomatic. Big bore. Max is outgunned, but the sharp crack of his Glock assures Jake that his partner is still in the fight. Jake begins to scurry toward the front of the house to support Max, trying his best to keep low behind the wall as he does. He’s only moved ten feet when the back door explodes open and a man bursts out with an assault rifle, cuts sideways a few steps, and starts firing on full automatic. While he sprays rounds along the wall and into the spot where Jake had been only seconds ago, Jake ducks behind a bush and grips his Glock in both hands. His enemy’s magazine clicks empty within seconds.
Undisciplined bastard, Jake thinks with a sliver of hope while the shooter slaps a fresh magazine into his weapon. I’m only gonna get one shot at this guy before he turns that fucking thing on me. Do I warn him before taking him out?
Jake’s in a millisecond of indecision when a second man wearing jeans and a T-shirt barges out the back door with someone slung over his shoulders in a fireman carry. He runs toward the south side of the house and disappears around the corner. Jake’s eyes snap back when the shooter unleashes a fusillade into the bushes, walking the stream of lead toward his hiding spot. Jake shouts “Police!” and squeezes the trigger just before the heavy-caliber bullets shred the shrubbery he’s sheltering be
hind.
Max has just put his target down beside the pickup and shot out the truck tires when automatic gunfire erupts from the rear of the house. He breaks cover and races toward the action. The gunfire stops after a few seconds.
“Police!” Jake shouts.
What the hell? This is no time to give the fuckers a break! “Put him down, Jake!” Max hollers as he sprints along the north side of the house. The crack of Jake’s Glock is all but drowned out by the roar of the heavier automatic gunfire. The shooting stops within seconds. Max recklessly turns the corner onto the back patio with his gun thrust ahead of him and slides to a stop. A groaning man he doesn’t recognize is sprawled on his back. An assault rifle lies on the ground a foot away from his twitching hand.
“Jake!” Max shouts. He kicks the gun farther away from the gangster while his eyes roam the back of the house and yard for additional threats. The only human sound is the labored breathing of the mobster on the ground at his feet. Max peers down at him and snarls, “Where’s the girl?”
The unmistakable death rattle of the bastard’s last breath is all the answer Max gets.
His attention shifts when he hears footsteps running down the driveway. Gotta be Jake, he thinks with relief when he spies someone sprinting away with a person draped over his shoulders. And he’s got Brittany! “Yippee fuckin’ ki yay!” Max whoops as he bends down to collect the assault rifle.
He’s about to set out after Jake and Brittany when he hears a low moan from the bushes lining the back patio. He studies the runner a moment longer. Big fucker, running a hell of a lot faster than Jake can—especially while carrying dead weight. So, where the hell is Max’s partner?
“Jake?” he calls as he hurries across the patio toward the moaning and spies his partner’s bloodied face peering up at him from the bushes. Max kneels beside Jake and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Who’s the runner?” he asks as his eyes stray back to the driveway.
“No idea,” Jake whispers hoarsely. “Carrying someone. Brittany? Warn Tony.”