One of the Mastersons stepped into view between two tall piles of metal, and then the other. The dark figures were unmistakable, the swollen chests, the hard taper of the sides, all top-heavy muscle and bellicose posture. The first put his foot up on a sawhorse and lit a cigarette, arm bent across the raised knee. Through the binoculars Tim watched the ribbon of smoke unspool from the dark face. The glowing point of the butt lowered; the mouths moved in conversation. The mood of the twin shadows was stern, focused, decisive.
One pulled open the trunk of the Expedition and yanked a bound man to the edge of the tailgate.
Kindell.
Gripping him with a fistful of fabric at the shoulder blades and a clench of the belt, the man steeled his muscles. Kindell remained limp and contracted, hands bound behind his back, knees curled to his stomach. His captor tugged him hard from the tailgate, letting him drop the four feet to the dirt, doing nothing to break his fall.
Kindell landed flat on his chest and face. Despite the breeze, Betty picked up his pained gasping.
Robert and Mitchell were discussing something. Beneath their voices Tim made out a few spats of radioed correspondence from the service desk officer, in all likelihood issuing from a portable radio that was a counterpart to the one in the Stork's kitchen.
Through the earpiece Tim heard "...under wraps until...then come back..."
The first shadow had his foot resting on Kindell's back, as naturally as it had rested atop the sawhorse a few minutes ago. They seemed to arrive at some conclusion, for the second figure picked up Kindell and, swinging him once to pick up momentum, tossed him into the trunk of the Lincoln. He slammed the lid. Tim watched closely--no sign of either Masterson setting a booby trap in the trunk.
The two turned and disappeared into the maze of pallets and junked wood.
Tim crept out from cover and inched toward the two cars, but it wasextremely slow going since the sawhorses and heaps of building materials concealed myriad hiding places, and he had to zigzag back and forth to ensure he wasn't leaving open a vulnerable angle. He reached the brink of the plateau and lay still in the waving foxtails, taking in the area in a long, slow sweep of the parabolic mike, earpiece snug in place, his right hand firm-gripping the .357. He got nothing back from Betty but a tinny whimpering from the Lincoln's trunk.
He popped up and did a quick run to the nearest cover, diving behind a mound of jagged metal refuse, the bulletproof vest and clayred dirt not softening his fall enough to keep pain from screaming through his stomach.
Still no sign of Robert or Mitchell. Plastic drop cloths fluttered everywhere--between stacked metal planes, beneath sawhorse legs, around corded bundles of boards. Tim scanned up the dark monument with the binocs, but it was hard to make out much more than the tree's outline through the scaffolding. He could see the open hatch at the base of the trunk where the Sky-Tracker spotlight had been slid into the tree.
He low-crawled to a rusting sandblaster about ten yards from the two vehicles, close enough that he could hear Kindell's desperate thumping in the car trunk. Again Tim surveyed the plateau, his eyes picking through the heaps of gnarled metal and discarded cuttings, the resting machinery, the boxy rise of scaffolding.
Kindell in the car trunk could very well be a baited trap. Tim rustled the Stork's new Nextel from his pocket. Since Mitchell, as a demolition expert, was accustomed to keeping his cell phones turned off, Tim clicked the preset number to "R," readied Betty, and hit "dial." The faint chirping ring of a phone was immediately audible, and Tim fanned the parabolic mike back and forth, searching for the strongest signal. The cone climbed the trunk of the tree, fanned out over one of the branches. Robert was not visible, because the wooden platform of the scaffolding cut off almost the entire branch from view, but Tim got a strong ring through the earpiece. He figured Robert was probably up there preparing a noose for Kindell.
The expected rough voice answered. "Robert."
Tim clicked the phone shut.
Robert appeared at the edge of the branch scaffolding, as Tim hoped he might. Raising his fingers to his mouth, Robert whistled a single harsh note. There was movement to the side of the monument, and then Mitchell's head poked up from a throw of scrubby brush; he'd been walking a surveillance patrol around the base of the monument while Robert readied the branch above.
Blocked from their view by the stacks of metal, Tim dashed over and tried to open the trunk of the Lincoln, but it was locked. The doors were locked as well--no getting to the trunk release without breaking a window. His efforts led to invigorated thumping in the trunk, and Kindell's muffled voice.
"Doan urt me. Please lee me be."
Kindell's loose, deaf enunciation brought fresh recollections, flooding Tim with revulsion.
He jogged back behind the sandblaster and aimed Betty again in Robert and Mitchell's direction, catching the tail end of their shouted discussion. "...on the Stork's phone...keep an ear on the scanner...get me Kindell..."
Mitchell started for the vehicles, his Colt glinting. Tim, crouched behind the blaster, was almost directly in his path. Mitchell drew near, approaching the car, and banged on the trunk with the barrel of the .45. Kindell let out a shriek.
His face twisted with disdain, Mitchell dug in his pocket for the keys.
Tim braced himself, weapon up near his cheek, then stepped from cover. Mitchell caught sight of him breaking into the open, and at once both guns were up and aimed. Miraculously, neither one of them fired.
A Mexican standoff.
"Well," Mitchell said. "Now what?"
"You tell me."
The wind had picked up; Tim was pretty sure as long as no shots were fired Robert wouldn't hear them from his position up high in the tree.
They drew a little nearer, Mitchell's left hand supporting the hairtrigger .45 in his right. His eyes jerked to the monument, betraying his urge to yell for his brother. Hands regripping the pistol, Tim shook his head, and the look on Mitchell's face made clear he understood what the price would be for shouting. His thick hand was steady on the gun, his finger curled through the trigger guard. Tim pictured him sitting in a parked van watching Ginny leave Warren Elementary, his eyes calm, a notepad in his lap. Mitchell following her silently, shadowing her through the streets she took on her route home.
A Detroit cop, task-force member, explosive-ordnance tech. Stalking a seven-year-old girl who still used bunny ears to tie her shoes.
Mitchell's mustache broadened with his smile. "Don't suppose you want to drop the guns and go at it man to man."
"Not on your life," Tim said.
They circled each other slowly within the ring of metal stacks, blocked from the monument's view.
"Let me tell you this," Tim said. "I've fired nine shots in the line of duty, and they've all been hits. Eight of them have been kill shots." He paused, moistened his lips. "If we throw down, you have no chance of surviving."
Mitchell mused on that, his head bobbing. "You're right. I'm not a shooter."
He spread his arms wide, letting the gun dangle from his thumb. He tossed it to the left, aiming for the sandblaster. It bounced off the metal box, missing the "on" button by a few inches.
Mitchell's eyes went to the metal stack to his side. If anyone could lift a five-foot pane of half-inch steel by himself, it was Mitchell. Tim wasn't about to take any chances.
"On your knees. Arms wide. Turn around. Hands on your head now. That's right. Not a noise."
Tim slide-stepped in on him, both hands on the gun. At the last moment he saw that the toes of Mitchell's boots were curled rather than flat against the dirt.
Mitchell pivoted and sprang. Tim laced his hand through the .357 and hammered Mitchell across the face with a ball of fist and metal.
Bone crunched.
Mitchell staggered but did not drop. As he charged into Tim, his legs shoved against the ground, a linebacker gaining yards. He knocked Tim back into a stack of metal, jarring him, then the immense arms were a frenzied blur. The bl
ows were even more devastating than Tim could have imagined. They were rapid and unremitting. They were car-crash powerful. They were rage and pain vented and embodied. Hunched protectively like a winded boxer on the ropes, Tim was wave-battered against the steel.
A haymaker brought him to his knees.
He'd have to shoot Mitchell or be killed. He brought the gun up, but then a shadow streaked toward Mitchell, flying up on his back, and Mitchell reeled, delivering a vicious elbow to the temple of his attacker. In the flash of an opening before Mitchell turned back, Tim delivered another gun-enforced blow, on the rise, directly between Mitchell's legs. Mitchell expelled a hard gust of air, and then a dry heave pulled him down into a lean. Tim rose, blood running freely into his eyes, and hammered the gun down across Mitchell's face.
Mitchell fell, his mouth open against the ground, his breath kicking up puffs of dirt. Bowrick stirred beside him, a lattice of broken veins coloring his left temple and upper cheek. Tim turned quickly, looking behind him for Robert's approach, but there was no sound save that of fluttering plastic and wind drawing across the plateau. Tim studied the monument but spotted no movement, no trembling of the scaffolding to indicate Robert's descent. Bowrick rolled over and shoved himself up on all fours, his forehead wrinkling with pain. He reached over, pulling Mitchell's gun from the holster, the barrel pointing at Mitchell's chest.
Tim tensed, dread locking the breath in his lungs.
Bowrick glanced over at him, their eyes holding for a moment, then he slid the gun into his jeans, sat back on his heels, and looked at Tim expectantly.
Tim gathered some cord from one of the wood stacks and double-bound Mitchell's wrists behind his back, then his ankles. One of Mitchell's eyes stared up at him, a glossy animal organ, all pupil. Tim's first blow had broken his cheek badly; the skin sucked in beneath the eye like a drape pulled to an open window. Tim was gentle with the gag. He patted Mitchell down, pulling the car keys from his pocket.
Bowrick sat with his elbows resting on his knees, watching Tim work. He spoke in a harsh whisper. "Where's the guy they want to kill?"
Tim pointed at the trunk of the Lincoln.
"Why don't we get him out of there?"
Keeping his eyes on the monument, Tim crossed to Bowrick, lowering his voice so Mitchell couldn't hear. "Can't have him making noise. And he's unpredictable--we don't want him running around right now." He tossed Bowrick the keys. "Get the hostage clear. Don't open the trunk, don't talk to him. Neutral it down the hill, nice and quiet. The metal stacks'll block you from view part of the way down. Don't turn on the car until you're through the gate, then drive a few blocks, park somewhere out of sight, and stay alert. Keep the cell phone on. If you haven't heard from me in an hour, split, call Deputy Jowalski at the U.S. Marshals Service, and explain the mess I dragged you into. And this time don't come back, even if it is to save my ass."
Bowrick nodded, slid into the driver's seat, and pulled the door gently shut. The Lincoln began the solemn downhill roll, tires crackling softly on the dirt path, brake lights glowing in the night.
Tim sat for a moment and mopped the blood from his forehead. One of Mitchell's blows had opened up a seam just at his hairline; he'd have a scar on the left to match the rifle-butt wound from Kandahar. Another punch had struck his shoulder near the bullet-fragment wound; it had already swelled up. His torso felt like a nerve-filled skin bag holding rocks and razor blades. After a few moments the rush of blood into his eyes slowed, and he stood up, fighting off light-headedness.
He retrieved Betty and the Stork's phone and dialed Robert's number again. Betty sourced the ring to the same branch, hidden from view by the scaffolding.
Same gruff voice. "Robert."
Tim hung up. He circled the monument to the far side. If there was gunplay, Robert would have a tactical advantage firing down on him; there was no harder shot than one directly up.
The scaffolding made for easy climbing. Leaving Betty behind, Tim worked his way up as silently as he could, minding every creak and shift. When possible he climbed the metal branches, as they gave off less noise than the wood. Every few moments he'd pause and strain his ears, listening for Robert's movement, but the wind, especially as he got higher, drowned out most noise--a factor that also worked to his advantage. Metal plates were missing here and there, dark, empty gaps looking in on the hollow tree interior.
About fifty feet off the ground, he paused, leaning against the cool metal of the trunk, drawing a deep breath, and hooking his fingers into a few of the monument's myriad holes designed to beam out the spotlight's glow. From this angle he had a clear view of the dirt path. The Lincoln drifted silently through the gate. He saw the lights blink on as the engine turned over, and then it pulled away.
Tim inched his way up, hugging metal and wood, drawing a few splinters. He wound up on the platform supporting the branch opposite Robert's, about three feet lower. Crouching on a knee, he withdrew the Stork's phone from his pocket and dialed again. The phone's chirping ring sounded clear and loud, just on the far side of the trunk. Tim kept the call active, sliding the Stork's Nextel into his pocket. Double-handing his Smith & Wesson, he drew back to the far edge of his platform so he could get three steps of a running start.
He timed two deep breaths, then thundered into his run. The trunk brushed his shoulder as he leaped, shoving off the platform hard and flying across a five-foot break of open air. Beneath him the drop stretched down seventy feet, broken only by metal branches and wooden crossbeams.
He hit the edge of the opposing platform and rolled evenly across his back, popping to a high-kneel shooting stance, one knee down, one up, the thrust of the gun an extension of both elbow-locked arms.
About six feet off the platform, dangling from a noose looped over the scaffolding above, was Robert's Nextel. Ringing. It swayed gently, rocked by Tim's hard landing on the platform.
He felt his insides go slack, the rush of panic. Keeping both hands firmly on the .357, he shuffled two steps, careful not to trip over a stray two-by-four, and peered over the platform's edge. On the ground Robert sprinted across the plateau, directly at the monument, sliding a curved Gurkha knife back into a hip sheath. He was coming from the direction of the parked car and the stacks of metal. Tim knew before he raised his eyes that next he'd see Mitchell, staggering twenty yards behind Robert, working the freshly cut cord from around his wrists. Though Mitchell moved unevenly, dizzied from Tim's blows, his shoulders were firmed with rage, his legs moving in short, punching steps.
What alarmed Tim even more was that Mitchell had his black det bag looped over one shoulder.
Tim glanced down, trying to spot Robert again, but he had already disappeared underfoot. Before he had time to formulate a single coherent thought aside from the slapping awareness of how badly he'd been fooled, a reverberating clank announced the spotlight's activation. Blinding light filled the core of the tree, shot in thin beams from the holes of the trunk and branches. A gap between metal plates below threw light up against the bottom of the platform; it streamed around the sides like a gold, twinkling river.
Squinting against the brightness, Tim glanced over the edge of the platform and saw Robert stepping slowly backward, peering up at him through the scope of a McMillan .308.
A bullet cracked through wood, zinging past Tim's head and embedding in a beam overhead. Tim threw himself flat against the platform. A second bullet punched through the platform inches from his face, throwing a spray of splinters past his cheek. He rolled toward the trunk, splitting beams of light. Two more shots penetrated the platform inches from his spinning body and ricocheted off wood and metal. Tim froze near the trunk.
The ping of metal and then the slapped-meat sound of slug smacking skin. Tim's leg jerked as he heard the delayed report, and he cried out, more from shock than pain. His mouth cottoned instantly. Beams of light shot out from the tree branches all around him and through the bullet-riddled platform, one ray an inch off his nose, another just in front of t
he bend of his elbow; two he sensed rising between the split of his legs. He lay still, realizing that his movement made him detectable as he crossed over the fingers of light, making them blink out.
His thigh throbbed, numb and painless. He estimated that the bullet had entered just north of his right knee. When he heard movement down below, he risked rolling his head over to glance through one of the platform holes.
Robert, head down, chambered another round. In a clear stretch of plateau about twenty yards from the monument, Mitchell was on a knee, pulling blocks of C4 from his det bag. From this distance the blood staining his face looked like oil.
Tim strained his eye back to where Robert had been, found him missing, and jerked away just as another bullet split the wood where his head had been, enlarging the hole he'd been looking through. A remarkable shot, particularly given the angle.
Tim froze.
The silence was nearly unbearable.
Another bullet broke through the wood; another beam of light sprang up like a fast-growing vine between his neck and shoulder.
The stray two-by-four, about five feet long, was just within reach of his right hand. With a grunt he shoved it a few inches forward. The far end of the board crossed a hole in the platform, quashing the thin beam of light, and quickly two bullets hammered through the wood on either side of the existing hole. Tim covered his head, waiting for the ricochets to stop.
What Tim had gleaned at Rhythm's indicated that Robert preferred a sitting shooting posture, an elevated tactical advantage, and a position offset right from a frontal view. Right now he was shooting from a standing position at a target directly overhead, and--despite those hindrances--firing with astounding accuracy. If Tim didn't get off this platform, he was going to get picked apart piece by piece.
the Kill Clause (2003) Page 46