by Trevor Scott
More jabbering came across the radio, which made Max respond with more phrases he had learned. Hopefully they would be freaking out, wondering if Max could actually understand Farsi. He couldn’t. Other than a few words.
Now, Max led his cousin through the foyer and into the living room. He knew that if they stayed on the closest wall they would not be seen, since the terrain outside made the living room more like the second floor and not the first. Which is why the first shooter had been required to take his potshots from the knoll across the parking lot. It was the only place raised high enough with a view inside the house.
First, Max brought his cousin to a position alongside the wall by the baby grand piano. From there, Frank would be able to see anyone coming through the four-season room and from the dining room. Farther down, his cousin also would have a shot at anyone popping out of the end of the foyer. Then Max went back toward the front desk, setting up a position with a great view of the front entrance and the hallway leading to the kitchen. From those two positions, they had covered all of the entry points.
Now they waited. While they did so, Max pulled out the radio and switched to emergency channels, hoping he would be in range of the sheriff’s dispatch. No such luck. These were cheap short-range radios. Probably bought recently at a local discount store.
He got nothing from any other channel on the radio. So, he switched back to the first frequency and started to taunt the Persians in English. He guessed they knew English as well as their own language.
Seconds later, Max knew he was right.
“You shouldn’t have crossed our boss,” one of the men said.
Max knew where this was going. “Listen, goat fucker,” Max started. “Just because your dick is so small no woman would be pleasured by you, doesn’t mean a woman should be forced into a brutal mutilation.”
“That’s not for you to decide,” the man said.
Then it came to Max. “You’re the potential husband.”
Silence.
Yeah, Max got that right.
“You are going to die tonight,” the Iranian said.
“Maybe we should make this personal,” Max said. “Just me and you.”
No comment.
Max shrugged. “Okay. Me against the rest of you ass bangers.”
His cousin Frank laughed and said, “You tell him, Max.”
“We think we’ll kill all of you,” the man said.
“I know this sounds cliché,” Max said. “But the police are on their way.”
The man laughed. “You think so?” Then there were some muffled voices again in Farsi.
Finally, another voice came on the radio. “Max, I’m sorry. They picked me up down the road.” Cousin Bobby sounded somewhat distressed. Scared.
The Iranian came back on and said, “Your cousin doesn’t seem to know a lot about you. But my employer told me to be careful around you.”
From across the room, Frank yelled, “Do they have Bobby?”
Max said, “Let the kid go and I might consider telling you where to find your boss’s daughter.”
“We already have Firuzeh,” the man boasted.
Considering the short text exchange he had with his former case, it was easy to believe that they had found Firuzeh, Max thought. But then why had they come after Max? And how had they found him? Neither were too difficult to understand, he thought. A man so devout that he would butcher his own daughter and then marry her off to a man more than twice her age would not think twice about killing a man who had promised to find that daughter and then refused to turn her over to the father. That same man would also find a way to track Max. Plus, it wasn’t like Max had been hiding. The Iranian had access to credit card information, and Max had used his card all the way across American along Interstate 80. He had even used it when he checked into the Winthrop Inn. Yet, Max was having a hard time reconciling the death of the chef and the poisoning of Martha. How did that fit in?
He pushed all of this from his brain as he tried to figure out how to get out of this situation. His first concern had to be Bobby. The others were relatively safe, he guessed.
Max saw a flash of light from the back window, where cars drove up the hill from the main road. He went behind his cousin Frank and peered over the window from his knees. Yep. It was a car moving up the outer road.
“That could be my dad,” Frank said. “If so, these guys are in trouble.”
“Why?” Max asked.
“Because my dad always comes heavily armed with extra security.”
Before Max could get his cousin to explain, he heard the gunshots coming from the perimeter road, flashes of light going off like fireworks in a rainstorm.
“Now I know where they are,” Max said. “Take my old position, protecting the staircase. I’m heading out there.”
“Don’t shoot my dad,” Frank said, as he got up and went across the living room.
“Roger that.”
Max moved with purpose through the library and into the four-season room, his NVGs making his quick progress possible.
Then he slipped out the side door and into the heavy rain, working his way toward the shooting down the hill.
19
Max pushed across the open grass normally used for weddings until he came to a stone wall about three feet high. He took up a position behind the wall and then rose up to view the scene below through his magnified scope and his holographic sight.
On the road below was a van and a sedan blocking further entrance to the estate. The block was at a natural choke-point in the road, where the pavement curved to the left and up the hill toward the complex of buildings. There was no going around it, either. On one side was the steep hill; on the other side was a drop-off down to the valley below, where the small river wound through the grass and low trees.
On his right, shooting up at the van and car, was a late model sedan that could have been a police car, or at least the same make and model used by law enforcement. Shooting came from two people hiding behind doors.
Max estimated the distance to target as a little less than a hundred yards. Easy enough for his AR-15, he thought. If he shot now, those firing from the car would know he was on their side. Somehow, they didn’t seem to be his Uncle Francesco and his men, though. They looked more like a man and a woman, and they were firing like trained law enforcement.
Shifting his rifle back toward the van, Max knew he needed to be careful with his shooting. His cousin Bobby was probably in that van.
Finding his first easy target, Max settled on center mass and pressed off one shot—dropping the man in a clump on the pavement.
He didn’t hesitate. Now he found a second target, but this one was hidden behind the back of the sedan. He only had a head shot. He pressed the trigger and saw pink mist at the top of the man’s head. Max had hit the man in the high forehead area. That man slipped down behind the car also.
Now, the gunfire stopped for a moment.
The radio on Max’s belt squawked, and he picked it up to listen to the Iranians.
“Say again,” Max said.
“I said, if you fire one more time I will kill your little cousin Bobby,” the man said.
Great. Bobby had let the man know about his ties, making it much easier for manipulation and leverage.
“You’re a cornered rat,” Max said. “If you give up now, I will let you live.”
Silence.
Then Max heard a voice directing him to an alternate channel. It was a law enforcement coded message. Max quickly shifted to that channel and tapped the talk button a couple of times.
“We are Boston police officers,” said a woman’s voice. “Are you our cousin Max?”
He was confused now, but then he remembered his aunt and uncle talk about his mother’s side of the family. If this was true, how in the hell had they gotten to this estate?
“This is Max,” he said.
“What are we up against?”
“I can see at least three, maybe fou
r men near the van and car,” Max said. “I just dropped two. Took out another one earlier up by the estate.”
“Copy that,” she said.
“They got you pinned down,” Max said. “But I’ve got superior position on them. Tell me your radio can reach out to the world.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Then you have two choices,” Max said. “Stay there and run out of ammo, or come up here with me.”
Hesitation. Then, she said, “We’re on our way.”
“I’ll cover you,” Max said.
Then he switched back to the old channel and heard the Iranian man yelling for Max to answer him.
Max said, “Say again. This cheap radio is failing in the rain.”
Heavy sigh on the other end. “I said, you need to surrender or we’ll put a bullet in your cousin’s head.”
“I heard that earlier,” Max said, his scope aimed at the two Boston cops as they pushed away from their car. He was delaying to distract. “I thought you had something new for me.”
“You bastard!”
Gunfire broke out from below as the Iranians realized the two cops were making a break for it.
Max shoved his rifle to the left and slowly squeezed off a number of rounds. This time he wasn’t aiming at men, he was taking out the tires on each vehicle. Now they definitely weren’t going anywhere. He had them right where he wanted them.
When there was no more shooting from below, Max turned his NVGs to his right and saw the man and woman making their way up the hill toward him, using the natural rise in the terrain for cover. He gave a little whistle and they headed toward him.
The man and woman jumped over the wall and settle in beside Max. The man looked a little older than the woman. He was fit, if not a little thick in places, with a strong jaw and short red hair. The woman could have been one of Max’s sisters. She was tall like his twin sister, and her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail the way Robin kept hers quite often. She was also strong, and he imagined she had no problem working the streets of Boston.
He flipped up his NVGs and said, “Max Kane.” He reached out his hand and shook each of their hands.
The woman said, “I’m Britt Ryan. This is my brother Mike. According to your Aunt Jackie, we’re first cousins on your mom’s side of the family. She called us and told us about the DNA test that brought you here.”
Mike broke in. “Jackie also mentioned you were a former federal agent.”
“Air Force OSI,” Max said. “Ten years.”
“She said you were also some kind of special forces guy,” Britt said. “I didn’t know Air Force had those.”
“Yes, ma’am we do. Combat controllers mostly.”
“Who are these people?” Mike asked.
“Persians,” Max said. “Well, technically Iranians. I worked a private case out west. Too long to explain now. Let’s just say I pissed off a father. He hired these guys to take me out. The big problem, and the reason I needed the two of you up here, is the fact that those assholes have Jackie’s kid, Bobby, held hostage. I think they might be holding him in that van.”
“Crap,” Britt said. “I hit that van a number of times.”
“So did I,” Mike said.
Max turned and flipped his NVGs. Then he put his gun to his eyes and looked through the small magnifier at the Iranians below. The men were still hiding mostly behind the car. But others had to be in the van, he knew.
“You come well prepared,” Mike said.
Flipping up his NVGs again and turning to his cousins, Max said, “Well, you never know what you might run into.”
“How much ammo do you have left?” Mike asked.
Max pulled out his magazine and saw that he still had about ten rounds left in that one. “Ten here and another thirty-round mag here. Plus, my Glock with a couple extra mags.”
Britt took out the magazine on her gun. “I’m down to just a few more rounds in here. And this is my last one.”
“I told you to save your ammo,” her brother said.
“How much do you have, smarty pants?” she asked.
Mike checked and said, “A couple more in here and one more full mag.”
Max turned to his cousin and said, “Is that a Glock Nineteen?”
She said, “Yeah.”
He pulled a spare magazine from his belt holder and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Can you get on the radio and see where the locals are?” Max asked. “Also, tell them we’ll need an ambulance.”
Britt pulled her radio from her jacket pocket and called in their situation, mentioning the hostage and approximate number of shooters. She confirmed their ETA and emphasized they would need an ambulance.
“And eventually a medical examiner,” Max said. “We also have a dead chef and a woman in anaphylaxis with a peanut allergy.”
Britt stared at Max for a minute before she relayed that information. Then she turned to Max and said, “You really have a dark cloud following you.”
He glanced up to the sky, where the rain had slowed considerably. “You think?”
Mike said, “Listen, I should run down the driveway and meet the local cops so they don’t just drive right up the hill into the shit-storm. I doubt they have a local SWAT team.”
“Good idea,” Britt said. She pulled out the radio and handed it to her brother.
“I’m switching back and forth to channel fifteen talking with those assholes,” Max said. “So, if I don’t answer immediately monitor that channel.”
“Copy that.” Mike got up and ran along the wall for quite a while before jumping over it and heading into the woods.
“Where is your sister?”
Max gave her the situation in the estate, from the dead guy in the kitchen, to Frank in the living room with a gun, and then to his family and others holed up in the second-floor room on the west side, including his Uncle Pasquale, who was also armed.
“What happened to the cell phones?” Britt asked.
“They have a jammer.”
“No landlines?”
“Cut those and the power down the hill,” Max said. “My cousin Frank tried to fix the generator, but they really trashed it.”
“How does the peanut allergy fit into all of this?”
“Coincidence,” Max said. “Or the chef or his young assistant was working with the Iranians.”
“I know your Uncle Pasquale,” she said.
“Really? How?”
“All of our families overlapped in Boston,” Britt said. Then a thought seemed to resonate with her. “Tell me your Uncle Francesco isn’t here.”
“He was supposed to be, but his plane was grounded with this weather somewhere in New Hampshire.”
“Thank God,” she said.
“Why?”
“You don’t know.”
“I just met all of these cousins and aunts and uncles in the past couple of days. Why?”
“Francesco Aldo is a Capo in the Giordano family in Boston,” Britt said.
Max shrugged. “I’m from a small town in northeast Nevada. But my Aunt Anna and their son Frank are both in that estate.”
“Crap,” Britt said. “Let’s hope Francesco doesn’t get wind of this standoff.”
He guessed she was right. “I’m also concerned about the response from the small-town sheriff’s deputies. I’d like to keep them only as backup.”
“Which means we need to handle this ourselves,” Britt concluded. “And fast.”
“Roger that,” he said.
20
Robin and the rest of those holed up in the second-floor bedroom were getting antsy. First, there were long periods where nothing seemed to be happening. Then, there was intense shooting out their windows, and all of them got to the floor and to the far side of the room.
And as quickly as the shooting had started, it now seemed to be over—at least for now, Robin thought.
Sitting on her butt against the wall by one of t
he windows, Robin snuck a peek out the edge of the curtain.
“See anything?” Uncle Pasquale asked. He had taken a position to Robin’s right, his gun still out on his lap.
“Not since the firing stopped,” she said.
“Your brother Max is one brave man,” he said.
“Or one crazy man,” Robin mumbled.
“He’s trained and experienced,” Pasquale said. “He knows what he’s doing.”
She glanced about the room. Aunt Jackie was resting on one side of the bed, with Aunt Anna kneeling on the side. Also on the bed was Martha, who didn’t seem to be doing too well. The doctor kneeled on that side of the bed.
“How’s everyone doing?” Robin asked.
“Just peachy,” Jackie said, a glass of red wine in her right hand.
For having been shot, Robin thought her aunt was handling it pretty well. “How’s your stomach?” Robin asked.
Jackie said, “I just hope we don’t run out of wine before we get rescued. That would be a tragedy.”
“I’m sure the police will get here soon,” Robin said. “Bobby should have made it down to a neighbor by now. In fact, that could have been the police shooting at the other men now.”
“Or your cousins from Boston,” Jackie said.
“What?”
“It was meant to be a surprise,” Jackie said. “I called your Ryan clan and told them about you. Two of them, Britt and Mike Ryan, are Boston cops.”
“Yeah, Pasquale told me about them,” Robin said. “But I didn’t know they were coming here.”
Pasquale said, “I just found out from Jackie when we were drinking downstairs by the fireplace.”
“The problem is that Max doesn’t know they’re coming,” Robin said. “Let’s hope they don’t get stuck in the crossfire. What can you tell me about them?”
Pasquale glanced up at his ex-wife and said, “You need to keep your pie-hole shut, Jackie. Christ, you’ve been shot.” He turned to Robin and said, “Mike is a couple of years younger than you and Max.”
“He’s thirty-eight,” Jackie said.