by Trevor Scott
“He’s got a couple of kids,” Pasquale said.
“Three kids,” Jackie corrected. “A son who’s fourteen, a daughter aged eleven, and another daughter who’s eight.”
“She’s right,” Pasquale said. “Her family is close with the Ryan clan in Boston. Anyway, Britt is three years younger than Mike, and she has two young daughters.”
“Five and three,” Jackie said. “Her husband is also a cop.”
“And Mike’s wife?”
“Has her hands full with three children,” Jackie said.
“I can imagine,” Robin said. She hoped they were all okay, if that was them shooting down there.
•
Frank had been scrunched against the living room wall since his cousin Max left him alone. By now his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The fire that had been bright and heating the room earlier in the evening was now just smoldering embers.
He couldn’t help but feel somewhat guilty for letting his cousin Max take on the shooters by himself. It had sounded like a damn warzone until just a moment ago.
His anxiety was getting the best of him now. He wasn’t sure if his father and his men were also down there shooting it out with the bad guys. He just hoped that Max could let them know that Cousin Bobby was being held hostage.
Reaching inside his jacket, Frank pulled out a perfectly rolled joint and put it into his mouth. What the hell, he thought. Light ‘em if you got ‘em. He lit the joint and drew in a heavy dose of smoke until he thought his lungs would explode. Then he let the smoke out in a steady exhale. Man, he thought, this was some good shit. He continued smoking until he had completely finished the joint. Now his heart seemed to be at a slow and steady pace, his anxiety gone entirely.
•
Mike Ryan ran as quickly as he could, considering the fact that the rain was coming down in sheets again, and the darkness made him trip a couple of times as he made his way through the woods.
When he finally got to the perimeter road, he let himself slow down somewhat. Then he had a thought. He pulled out his sister’s radio and switched to the emergency channel. After a short period trying to hook up with the local law enforcement officers responding to their request for backup, Mike spoke with the deputy sheriff closest to his location.
“It doesn’t sound like you’re approaching,” Mike said.
“We’re in a holding pattern until we get our own backup,” the deputy said.
“There are already multiple casualties,” Mike said. “We gave your dispatcher our badge numbers and credentials. You need to get up here now.”
“I have my orders,” the deputy said.
“What’s your twenty?”
“The entrance to the Winthrop Inn.”
“Alright,” Mike said. “I’m walking down the hill right now. Be there in five. Don’t shoot me.”
In less than five minutes, Mike could see the sheriff’s deputy car blocking the exit to the main road leading to nearby Manchester, Vermont. There was only one road in and out of the estate, so it was the right position to take.
Mike pulled his phone out and turned it on so the deputy could see him coming. Because of the rain, Mike was quick to enter the front passenger side of the patrol car. The deputy had to be only a couple years out of high school.
They shook hands and then Mike said, “My sister is also Boston police. She’s up the hill with my cousin in a standoff with some bad hombres. Iranians.”
“Is this a terrorist situation?” the deputy asked.
“I don’t think so,” Mike said. “More of a family issue.” He went on to explain what he knew about his cousins and the others, based on what Max had told him.
“And this Francesco Aldo is involved in some way?” the deputy asked.
“Not yet. You better hope he doesn’t get involved. But they’ve got my cousin’s cousin hostage. And that’s Francesco’s nephew.”
“What a shit storm,” the young deputy said, his teeth gnashing.
Under the circumstances, it was probably a smart move for the deputy to stop where he did. This kid was as green as they came. If the young man went in half-cocked, he’d either get himself killed, or someone else up by the estate.
“What’s the ETA for backup?” Mike asked.
“About five minutes.”
Finally, Mike got onto the radio and called his cousin Max, letting him know he was with a local LEO, and they were waiting for the cavalry. Five minutes out, Mike relayed.
21
Max guessed that their delay tactics were working, since the Iranians had not called them with demands for the past five minutes. In the meantime, he and his cousin, Britt, were sitting in the open and completely drenched. With the wind whipping across the valley, his cousin was starting to shiver.
“You can have my jacket,” Max said. “But it probably won’t be much help, since it’s soaked all the way through.”
“I’m fine,” Britt said, her protests sounding just like his sister Robin’s.
“We could head up to the estate,” Max said, “but we have a tactical advantage here. They can’t move without us shooting them.”
“My handgun won’t be much help from this range,” she said, her teeth chattering.
“Come here,” Max said, taking his cousin into his arms for mutual warmth.
While he held her, he kept on his NVGs and his eyes on the van and sedan down the hill. Deep inside him, he wished he had known all of these cousins while growing up. Would it have made a huge difference in his life? He wasn’t sure. They might have still been a continent away, but at least they would have had some contact. They could have visited a few times and bonded. Then, once social media became more prevalent, they could have kept up on each other. Damn it, he thought. Now he might actually have to get on social media. Something he had avoided to this point. Maybe he could convince them all that a simple text with a photo from time to time would be enough. Perhaps email.
In a couple of minutes, the van started to move, its two left-side flat tires flapping around the inside of the wheel-well.
“Shit,” Max said, pulling away from Britt. “They’re on the move. If they get into the main estate building, they’ll have a lot more hostages. Let’s go.”
Max led them up the hill in what had become even darker conditions. Since the road was lined with trees, large and small, he couldn’t see the van as it drove higher up the hill toward the parking lot. But he could hear the tires flopping.
Instead of rounding the building, Max rushed right into the four-season room. Then he yelled for his cousin Frank so he wouldn’t get shot, before Max led Britt into the living room.
Frank stood up and said, “Man, am I glad to see you. Who’s the lady?”
Max explained quickly who Britt was. Then he said, “Why don’t you two stay here and cover this building. We can’t let them get inside.”
“Where are you going?” Frank asked.
“Out through the front door,” Max said. Then to Britt he said, “You need to contact Mike and update him on the situation.”
Britt nodded and changed channels.
Max heard her talking with her brother as he took off quickly toward the front entrance. When he got there, he hesitated briefly and then rushed out into the parking lot area. He needed to engage the bastards before they could reach the estate.
He vectored around the outside of the main building, keeping his back to the brick and his eyes on the road ahead. Finally, he got to a spot alongside the east side of the building, near the delivery entrance to the kitchen, with a cluster of large maple trees in front of him.
Then he listened and could hear the van slowly making its way up the hill, the tires flopping around like baseball cards on bike spokes.
He had only a few choices—none of them good. Since he could see and they could not, he could simply rush the van and take out everyone who was not his cousin. But one of them could get a shot off and kill Bobby. His other choice was to simply wait and see what t
hey did. Maybe he could pick off one or two of them.
Now he wished he still had the radio to talk with the Iranians. Hopefully, his cousin Britt would handle that for him. But it left him in comm darkness.
•
Britt got off the channel with her brother and quickly switched back to the one they had used to talk with the Iranians.
Frank said, “My cousin’s a badass.”
“You could say that,” she said. “He just dropped two men out there. Have you been smoking pot?”
“Maybe a little,” Frank said.
“Your dad is Francesco Aldo, right?”
“Yeah, but I’m not in that game. I joined the Navy to get away from that. I’m just an electrician.”
“You seem to know your way around a gun,” Britt said.
“It’s my second amendment right,” he said. “Live Free or Die, Baby.” Then Frank thought for a beat and said, “I don’t normally carry when I drink or smoke. I had my gun in my truck until the shooting started.”
“Good to know,” she said.
The radio came to life. “Speak to me,” the man said. “Your cousin is getting nervous in here.”
Britt pulled out her phone and hit record. Then she said, “Let Bobby go and we’ll let you pass.”
“Who the hell is this?”
“Police,” she said, without clarification.
“Where’s that asshole I was talking with before?”
Britt thought for a second and then said, “He had to go take a dump. You’re dealing with me now.”
“You can’t take a poop in the middle of a hostage negotiation,” the Iranian said incredulously.
“You weren’t dealing with a sane person,” Britt said, and then shrugged to Frank.
“No kidding. He’s killed three of my men.”
“Why did you kill the chef?” Britt asked, holding her phone in front of the radio speaker.
The Iranian laughed. “He was supposed to poison all of the people at dinner tonight. He refused. So, my man had to take him out, along with his young friend.”
“That’s when he called you in?” Britt asked.
“Something like that. We would have taken the estate, but we heard that Max Kane was probably heavily armed.”
“I guess you found that out for yourself,” Britt said. “What about your employer?”
“What about him?”
“Did he authorize you to go this far?”
A long delay on the other end. “You are delaying. I hold the cards here.”
She turned to Frank and said, “Stay here. Our cousin could use my help.” Britt pocketed the radio and hurried out the front door.
Once she got into the rain again, she heard the truck approaching from the perimeter road, the flopping of its tires distinctly disturbing. Now she needed to be careful. But at least her cousin was trained in situations like this, and he had night vision goggles.
•
Max heard the van before he saw it approach, appearing through the trees lining the perimeter road. Then he could finally see the van, but only the driver was visible to him. Where were the others?
He sensed movement to his left and he turned his head slightly. Max couldn’t give away his position with any noise, so he grasped the woman in a sleeper hold.
“Quiet,” he whispered in Britt’s ear, and then he let her go and the two of them crouched behind some low shrubs.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
“Radio.” He put out his hand.
She handed him the radio and he checked the channel to make sure it was ready to talk with the Iranians.
Pushing to talk, Max said, “You’re all going to die.”
Britt gave him a concerned look.
The van was still too far away for a clean shot with a handgun, but the distance was perfect for an AR-15. With the angle, Max had just one shot, and that was to take out the driver. Making sure they had not forced his cousin Bobby to drive, which they hadn’t, Max pressed off one round and the van stopped in an extremely vulnerable position with no cover. If they got out now, Max could pick them off one by one.
On the radio again, Max said, “You’re next, asshole.”
When the Iranian spewed every possible cuss word and phrase in Farsi, Max had to turn down the volume so as not to give away his position. He simply smiled, knowing his taunts might make the man continue to make mistakes.
How many men could be left? Two? They had to be getting desperate now, Max thought.
But the Iranian wasn’t making his move. He wasn’t as stupid as Max thought.
“What now?” Britt asked.
“Is your brother and friends moving in?”
She shrugged.
Max switched back to the emergency channel and handed the radio to his cousin.
Britt quietly asked for an update and an ETA. A frustrated Mike Ryan came back, saying they were in a holding pattern. The sheriff was there, but he didn’t want to head into a shoot-out.
No joy, Max thought. He took his AR-15 from the sling around his body and handed the gun to his cousin.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He drew his 9mm auto and verified he had enough rounds in the magazine before quietly setting it back into the handle.
“I’m going in,” Max said. “I can see. They can’t. Keep that asshole busy on the radio.”
Then, Max quietly headed out.
22
Max moved quietly through low juniper bushes, his eyes on the van out in the opening, but shifting down frequently to keep his footing. At the outer edge of the bushes he nearly tripped over a man’s foot sticking out from the underbrush. He aimed his gun and then saw that it was the young man who had helped out with the meal that evening. Like the chef in the kitchen, he was stabbed multiple times, his face contorted in a grimacing death mask.
He kept moving, stopping briefly at the edge of the trees and crouching down. What he was about to do was dangerous for him and for his cousin Bobby. But he had no other choice. The longer they waited, the more likely the man would turn the gun on Bobby anyway.
There were no windows on the side of the panel van. Max had moved around to the side knowing this fact. It was his only approach without discovery.
He stepped up to the van quietly but with determination. Max could hear a voice talking. Was it coming from inside the van? Now he wished he had a flash bang. But he didn’t.
Moving around to the back of the van, he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. With his NVGs leading his way, Max quickly pulled the door open and shoved his gun toward the inside of the van.
Nothing. Only the dead man behind the wheel.
Then he heard talking again and shifted his head toward the trees directly behind the van. Somehow, as he approached, they had slipped out of the van and angled back toward the forest.
Max turned and made his way with purpose toward the voice. He guessed that his cousin was keeping the man busy, but he was doing the same thing.
Once Max got into the trees alongside the perimeter road, he could finally see movement ahead. Then more. Three figures. Two Iranians and Bobby.
Max picked up the pace, moving parallel along his side of the road, while his targets stayed in the woods on the other side. He was now within fifty yards of the men, but he needed to get much closer. He wished he had kept his AR-15 now, since he had a couple of chances for longer shots at the man holding his cousin by the shoulder. That man was carrying his own AR-15, which now made Max outgunned. He could mitigate that by moving closer. After all, he still owned the night.
As they got lower along the road, his targets suddenly disappeared. They must have gone down the hill toward the river, Max thought. These men had made a vital error, he thought. Max didn’t just own the darkness, he was best in the forest in these rural environments.
Swiftly crossing the road, Max then pushed forward into the trees on the opposite side until he came to a stone wall. That wall had to be over a hundred y
ears old, and it was nearly identical to the one on the south side of the property, which he had used for cover earlier.
Max stopped in his tracks when he heard the two men speaking Farsi. Then he heard Bobby begging to be let go.
The Iranian switched to English and said, “If we go to the east, where does that go?”
Bobby said, “Just ahead you have to cross the river, and it’s running high now.”
“After the river,” the Iranian said.
“There’s a north and south road a half mile from the river,” Bobby said.
Max crossed the stone wall and continued to move forward until he could finally see the men below on the hill. The only reason he could hear anything now is because the rain had slowed down considerably.
“Where does the road lead?” the man asked.
“You can head north to Canada eventually,” Bobby said. “Go south and you end up in Massachusetts or New York.”
“Good,” the man said. “I guess we no longer need you.”
The man with the AR-15 started to raise his rifle, but he got it only part way. Max shot the man twice in the chest and a third round put a third eye in his forehead.
The man in charge turned his gun toward Max and shot three times. But Max had shifted his position to his right. Then Max emptied his gun on the man, not stopping until the slide on his Glock snapped back to empty. Without thinking, he swapped in a fresh magazine and moved forward until he got to the men he had shot, making sure they were both immobilized.
Bobby had his hands over his head and was sobbing.
“It’s Max,” he said. “Cousin Max.” Then he lifted the NVGs on his head, away from his eyes.
Bobby gave him a big hug and held on for a long minute. Finally, knowing his cousin Britt would have heard the shots, Max found the radio on the leader and keyed it.
“Targets down,” Max said. “Hostage safe.”
“What’s your twenty?” Britt asked.
He gave his location and then put the radio in his jacket pocket.
“What just happened?” Bobby asked. “Who are these guys?”