by Spell, David
The police officer did not want to get distracted from his own mission of tracking down his daughter, but he wasn’t going to stand by and watch a young woman be brutalized by those thugs. McCain had managed to rescue Elizabeth, killing the four kidnappers in the process. He had taken her back to the abandoned house where he was staying as the snow and sleet continued to fall, preventing any possibility of travel.
Over the next few days, the pair had plenty of time to talk and by the time McCain returned Elizabeth Benton to the small technical college where she lived and worked, they had fallen in love. Two months later, they left together to continue Chuck’s personal journey. When McCain asked Beth to marry him, she had enthusiastically accepted. A pastor had performed the ceremony almost six months earlier.
Chuck typed a reply to her text. “You definitely bring out the best in me. Hurry home tonight and I’ll show you how I’m feeling!”
Beth loved to tease her husband about their age difference. He had just turned forty-five while she was only twenty-nine. Elizabeth had made it clear that, at some point, she wanted to be a mommy. Melanie was twenty-three, but if Beth wanted a baby, Chuck’s daughter would eventually have a baby brother or sister.
As if on cue, his phone vibrated again. This time it was a text from Mel. She had snapped a photo standing sideways in front of a full-length mirror, showing her growing belly. The young woman was at the seven-month mark in her own pregnancy.
“I’m so fat!”
“You’re gorgeous!” Chuck typed back. “Pregnant looks good on you!”
With McCain’s long delay in locating his daughter, Melanie had given up hope that her father was even still alive. She and her boyfriend, Brian, had gotten married, the young man’s parents having served as lay pastors in their church, performing the ceremony. When Chuck finally reunited with his daughter, he was delighted to find that he was going to be a grandfather.
“How’s Elizabeth? It still feels strange to me that you’re married again but I’m so glad to see you happy!” Melanie added two smiley face emojis to the end of her text.
“Thanks! She’s doing great. She loves her job and is pretty much running the CDC. I flew to Georgia with her last night and we’re planning on enjoying a quiet weekend here.”
“Nice. When are you guys coming up?”
“We need to do that soon. Let me talk to Beth and see what we can work out. Are you guys still on the farm?”
“For now. Brian’s parents are talking about heading back to Hartwell but they keep getting reports about areas of the interstate that aren’t safe.”
McCain remembered that stretch of interstate vividly. Brian’s grandparents had a farm near Asheville, North Carolina, where they had fled as thousands of fresh zombies had surged out of Atlanta on the interstates. After discovering Melanie’s new location, Chuck and Beth had began their dangerous journey through South and North Carolina, almost losing their own lives in the process.
“I’ll check on that when I’m back in the office on Monday and let you know. I’m heading out with Josh to shoot so I’ll talk to you later. Love you!”
“Love you back!” She added a heart emoji.
The sound of a vehicle stopping in front of the house turned his attention away from his phone. That must be Josh, he thought. The federal police officer glanced out the window, expecting to see his friend’s red Ford F-150 pickup. Instead, McCain saw a black work van stop on the street with both passenger side doors flying open. Maybe they’re part of the yard crew across the street, he guessed.
Dacula, Georgia, Friday, 1050 hours
As they were approaching the target location, Francisco heard José talking on his cell phone. The driver couldn’t hear everything but he picked up enough to understand that, as far as they knew, their victim was inside the house. Francisco understood that the team’s mission was to kill the gringo federale and set his house on fire. If it turned out that no one was home, they would still burn the house down and get the gringo another time.
The smuggler did not know how the law worked in America but he was instinctively aware that he was about to become an accomplice to a murder. He briefly considered driving away as soon as he let the team out. That was a terrible idea, though, and he knew that he could never do it. A single phone call from José and his wife and sons would be put to death.
As they turned into the cop’s neighborhood, a pickup pulling a trailer of lawn equipment passed them heading out of the subdivision. Maybe that’s what I should do, Francisco thought. I could use the twenty grand from this job and start a lawn care business. My sons could help me when they get older and I would be teaching them an honest trade. It was a much less dangerous way to make a living, the Mexican pondered, praying to the Blessed Virgin that he would make it home safely.
The GPS directed them to a gray, two-story home in the quiet housing development. José had moved back to the passenger seat, checking the cellphone photos someone had sent him of the gringo’s house, making sure they were at the right place.
“Vamonos, amigos,” the team leader ordered as the van came to a stop.
José pushed open his door as the others pulled back the sliding door. The hitman paused, making eye contact with Francisco, sensing his thoughts, as he drew a 9mm Sig Sauer pistol.
“We’ll be right back,” he said, his hard gaze making Francisco squirm.
The human smuggler managed to nod as the five men moved quickly across the lawn towards the front door. Three of the assassins were carrying long guns, while José and Jaime clutched pistols. Jaime also held a pry bar. When they reached the front door, he stuffed the gun into his waistband, applied the pry bar, and within seconds the assassins disappeared inside the house.
Gun shots suddenly erupted from inside, the sound of a steady barrage carrying out the front door, across the yard, and through the open side door of the van. How many shots does it take to kill one man? Francisco trembled as the gunfire finally subsided. Two figures stumbled out and down the steps, rushing towards the van. Where are the others?
A big man in dark clothes followed them out of the house firing a shotgun at the two fleeing Mexicans, the loud booms reverberating in the silent neighborhood. José stumbled but kept running, turning to fire a shot. The gringo federale moved to the left, tossing aside the shotgun and in a blur drew a pistol, continuing to shoot as the hitmen reached the van. Jaime gasped and started to fall but José grabbed his companion, pulling him inside the vehicle.
“¡Ve! Ve! Ve!” José yelled, pulling the sliding door closed as bullets continued to slam into the van.
Something punched Francisco in the side as he pulled the gearshift into ‘Drive.’ He shoved the accelerator to the floor, pain coursing through his body, blood dripping down his back as he struggled to take a breath. Moments later, he turned out of the neighborhood, almost colliding with a red Ford pickup truck head-on. The driver of the F-150 was just able to avoid the collision, cursing at the other driver and giving him a one-finger salute.
Josh Matthews thought about following the reckless van, but he was off-duty and looking forward to training with Chuck. One of the many lessons that his former FTO had drilled into him was not to get involved in incidents when you were off-duty. It usually led to grief and sitting in court on another off day.
When the van had stopped in front of his home, McCain watched from the window, waiting to see if it was anyone he knew. As the passenger and sliding doors opened disgorging five armed men, however, he had sprung into action. What the hell’s going on? he thought, instinctively reaching for the case containing his M4, the rifle that had seen him through so many firefights. The problem, however, was that it was inside the canvas bag and was unloaded.
The federal law enforcement officer quickly shifted to Plan B, reaching behind the door of his office and retrieving the Benelli Super 90 Tactical Shotgun. Chuck had several guns stashed around his house, the Benelli residing in the office. He pulled the charging handle to the rear and let it
slam forward, chambering a .12 gauge shell, and moved out into the hallway towards the top of the staircase as he heard wood splintering and his front door crash open. In loading the Super 90, Chuck had alternated between 00 and number four buck to cause the maximum amount of devastation on anyone foolish enough to invade his home. The former contained eight .30 caliber pellets, while number four released twenty-seven .25 caliber pellets.
It was only ten feet from the entrance to the base of the stairs, but he could not see the door from where he was at, a wall obscuring his view. McCain let the intruders come to him, raising the shotgun as a figure carrying an AR-15 materialized below him. AR Man saw his target at the top of the stairs and tried to bring the muzzle up. Chuck triggered the Benelli, a blast of 00 buckshot catching the intruder in the center of the chest, a large circle of red appearing on his white t-shirt, the assailant swaying but not going down.
Another gunman quickly stepped up next to AR Man. Bad Guy Number Two had an AK-47 and fired a five-round burst up the stairs as McCain fired again, this time sending a blast of number four buckshot into AK Man’s face, exploding his head, and spraying the white wall behind him with blood. The rifle clattered loudly to the hard wood floor, it’s owner collapsing next to it.
AK Man’s rounds had struck the top two steps, sending wood fragments flying, one of them slamming into Chuck’s face, snapping his head back and staggering him momentarily. There was no time to stop and check it now, however, as blood dripped down his forehead and onto the bridge of his nose. Thank God it’s not flowing into my eyes, McCain thought.
Two more invaders rounded the corner, one aiming a shotgun, the other a pistol. For some reason, AR Man was still standing, even though McCain could see a gaping hole in his chest where the 00 had hit him. Three bad guys, all getting ready to shoot him. This was turning into a bad day.
It got worse as the AR-15 fired a full-auto burst, the bullets striking the wall on Chuck’s right, sheetrock dust filling the air. My bad, that’s an M-16! the officer realized as the the wounded gunman moved the rifle a few inches, trying to line up the gringo federale. Chuck quickly fired at M-16 Man, the buckshot striking him in the forehead, removing the top of his skull, splattering the expensive leather sofa behind him, and finally sending him to the floor.
An additional figure, this one slim, wearing a mustache, moved out from behind the wall. The three gunmen began shooting just as McCain squeezed off a round at them and retreated back down the hallway to his and Beth’s bedroom to create some distance. It seemed counterintuitive to move during a gunfight when people were shooting at you. Staying in the same place, however, was a recipe for getting shot, especially when you were outnumbered. Distance in a gunfight always favored the better shot, the Green Berets had drilled into him.
A shotgun and two pistols fired up at the big man as he ran away, buckshot and bullets smashing into the wall and ceiling of the hallway, sending more dust and plaster exploding outwards. McCain ducked into the bedroom, pausing a moment to wipe the blood dripping down his face onto his bare forearm. His eyes and lungs burned from the sheetrock dust.
A voice barked an order in Spanish and suddenly someone rushed up the steps. Chuck dropped to his knees in the doorway, making himself a smaller target, just as a heavily tattooed Hispanic male topped the stairs aiming a pump-action shotgun at Chuck. McCain’s shot caught him at an upward angle under the chin blowing the top of his head, sending hair, brains, and bones all over the ceiling in Chuck’s hallway. The body toppled backwards, slamming loudly down the steps, coming to rest near the last two living cartel hitmen.
The police officer quickly pulled three shotgun shells off the side-saddle ammo holder on the Benelli and fed them into the magazine tube. He then stood and slowly edged towards the staircase, ready to go on the offensive. Chuck had counted five gunman getting out of the van. Three were down so that should only leave two. Those were much better odds, he thought, pulling the stock of the shotgun into his shoulder.
At the top of the stairs, McCain slowly moved forward, being careful not expose too much of his head or upper body. The man with the pencil thin mustache peeked around the corner below, pointing a pistol up the stairs. Chuck quickly sidestepped to the right as the intruder fired, the 9mm bullet narrowly missing McCain just as he squeezed off a shot from the .12 gauge before retreating again down the hallway. The twenty-seven pellets punched through the wall, sending sheetrock, wood fragments, and lead into the mustached man. A few of the number four buck pellets found the last gunman, Jaime, also taking cover behind the wall.
The dust blinded José and he felt blood dripping down his cheek and his arm throbbed with pain. Jaime had been wounded as well, the pellets striking his right forearm, causing him to drop his pistol. José glanced at the bodies of their three comrades lying nearby. They would have to get the gringo another time, the gangster realized, but for now, it was time to leave. The cartel team leader fired two more shots around the corner and pushed Jaime out the door.
The pistol rounds hit high on the wall to his left and Chuck heard the footsteps pounding across his hardwood floors towards the door. The officer moved quickly but cautiously down the stairs, stepping over the gunman that he had just killed. He crouched and did a quick peek around the corner, only to see the last two assailants fleeing across his yard towards the waiting van.
McCain hurried after them, raising the Benelli and firing at the back of Mustache Man. He staggered but did not go down, managing to turn and fire his Sig at Chuck. McCain fired until the shotgun was empty, dropped it to the grass, drew his own pistol, and stepped to the left out of the gunman’s line of fire.
Chuck started pumping out 9mm hollow points as fast as his finger could pull the trigger. Mustache Man jerked again as he dove into the open side door of the van and at least two of the officer’s rounds hit the second intruder, as well, but his companion grabbed him, pulling him into the now moving vehicle. McCain started running after the van, continuing to fire until the Glock locked open. He dumped the empty magazine, snatched a fresh one off of his duty belt, slammed it into the pistol, and brought the gun back on target as he chased after the escaping vehicle. By now, though, the van was racing out of his neighborhood and Chuck had to stop shooting for fear of hitting one of his neighbor’s homes.
Moments later, Josh Matthews’ UGA-red pickup pulled up to an out-of breath Chuck McCain, pistol in hand, blood now covering his face, a hundred yards from his house.
“That black van!” Chuck gasped, holstering his weapon, and pointing in the direction they had fled. “They tried to kill me. Broke into my house.”
Josh’s eyes grew large. “They almost hit me when I was turning in! You’re bleeding, man. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. Call it in. I’m pretty sure I wounded a couple of them. I may have hit the driver, too.”
Matthews was already calling the officer-only number for dispatch. “Get in and we can go after them. They can’t have gotten that far.”
Chuck slid into the passenger seat. “Do you think I should leave? There’s a pretty big crime scene at my house.”
“I thought you said you wounded the guys as they were running away?”
McCain’s breathing was almost back to normal. “There’s three dead bodies in my living room. At least I think they’re dead. We probably need to check and that van shouldn’t be too hard to find. I emptied my Glock into it.”
The police dispatcher answered and Josh quickly related what Chuck had told him. He gave a lookout on the van and the two men that McCain had engaged. The sergeant also requested a zone car, a supervisor, detectives, an ambulance, and CSI to respond to the location.
Chuck reached up and touched the wound to his head. It felt like a long cut, maybe three inches, just below his hairline high on his forehead. It was painful but didn’t seem very deep, he realized, wiping the blood onto his pants.
Matthews parked in the street and the men approached the house. Josh drew his own off-duty pistol,
a 9mm Glock 19. Chuck led the way, his Glock up and ready. After a moment, both officers holstered their weapons, the three criminals being very dead. Josh had been a police officer for fifteen years and had seen a lot of crime scenes. This one would have to be at the top of the list for the amount of sheer carnage involved.
Three tattooed, Hispanic-looking males were splayed out on Chuck’s living room floor. The one at the bottom of the stairs had been shot under the chin, the top of his head missing, blood still dripping from the ceiling at the top of the stairway. A pump shotgun lay beside him.
One of the males had a gaping hole in the center of his chest. Another blast had destroyed his head. An M-16 rested across his chest. The last corpse had taken the number four buckshot in the mouth, obliterating his face and nearly removing his head from his torso. An AK-47 was near his body. A Beretta pistol had been dropped near the front door. Chuck’s comfortable leather couch was coated with blood and gore. He taken many a good naps on that sofa, he thought, sadly, knowing it would have to be replaced.
“Is Elizabeth at work?”
“Yeah,” McCain nodded staring at the bodies, the adrenaline starting to wear off. “Thank God she wasn’t here.”
“Any idea who these guys are?”
The sound of sirens got closer and something clicked in McCain’s mind. He knelt beside the body at the bottom of the stairs and checked his arms. There were a number of tattoos on the left arm but none that jumped out at the federal police officer. His right arm was bloody and had been struck by at least one of Chuck’s shotgun pellets, but he found what he was looking for. On the inside of the right bicep was the word ‘Tijuana.’ McCain grabbed his phone and snapped a picture.
Josh watched as his friend moved over to the body with the M-16. This time he started with the right arm. The gangster had a variety of gang tats but Chuck found the one he was looking for. The third dead man had the same tattoo in the same place. Chuck took pics of their two tats, as well.