Loreena’s eyebrows shot up. “Leading?”
“After the initial ambush, in the bar, when they start coming out, Saul’s team will take them down.”
She envisioned her brother down there in the rain, straddling some motorcycle, waiting for Frank’s signal—gloved hands gripping wet handlebars, slim body taut on the leather seat, teeth chewing on his tongue. Did he have a gun too, she wondered? Would he actually kill one of those men down there?
Frank patted her shoulder. “He’s turned out okay, your brother. It’s all in the family, isn’t it?”
Loreena clenched one hand into a fist, keeping her eyes trained forward.
“I think everyone’s here.” Shawn’s voice over the speaker.
The street had quieted, only a few of the engines still running. As if in anticipation of the coming battle, the rain backed off, falling lighter now and nearly soundless on the roof. Frank left her and returned to the window, sliding back into his place with the eagerness of an emperor about to witness the clash of his favorite gladiators. Loreena backed away until she found the corner and pressed up against the wood, smelling years of dust and mold and lingering smoke. If Shawn had a plan for taking Frank down tonight, she didn’t know what it was. The boss had never seemed safer, or happier.
“Everyone check in,” Raymond said.
“Rooftop one ready,” one voice said through the gadget.
“First floor clear.”
“Left attack good to go.”
“Right attack checks in.”
“Team cleanup is good to go.” Saul’s voice.
Loreena hugged her arms close.
“Anyone see McCracken?” Frank asked.
Silence. Then Shawn: “No one’s spotted him.”
Frank grunted. The room took on the heavy silence of expectation, as if every man were holding his breath. The last motorcycle engine stopped. For several moments, no one moved.
“Go,” Frank said.
The block erupted in gunfire. Across the street, shotguns boomed and pistols popped, the attack in the bar Frank had told her about. It sounded like fireworks but far more vicious in its ferocity, the shooting an incessant barrage of explosions all localized in one building, the rest of Frank’s men waiting at their assigned positions for the next wave. Gradually, the initial heavy firing diminished to a more sporadic series of volleys as what seemed like it might be a one-sided slaughter turned into a true fight, the White Moose finding cover and shooting back. The clothing building echoed the thunder like a theater, an oppression of violent explosions and cocking guns and discarded casings. The air seemed to pound against Loreena’s head, the scream of someone getting hit riding repeatedly over the chaos of weapons fire until it all blended together in a rising flame of smoke and blood and gunpowder and dust and the agony of men’s voices as, one after another, they met their end.
“Here they come!” Raymond shouted, and Frank’s followers unleashed the second wave, the attack from the windows. As a group they fired into the street below. Loreena crouched down and ducked her head as some of the White Moose fired back. Gunshots passed over and under and around, puncturing skin and splintering bone, men gasping and grunting as they fired, other men crying out when they were hit, motorcycle engines starting up in the warzone and then left running as their riders were picked off like pins in a bowling lane. It went on for a good ten minutes, the firing and the shouting and the screaming and the engines, until the second wave subsided and the gunfire alternated between periods of silence and intermittent pops, followed by another onslaught of deafening blasts.
Loreena dared not move. More men tried to escape out of the bar. The weapons started up again, Frank’s men shouting instructions to one another, running back and forth, pointing out stragglers, encouraging each other to stay at it, not to let one biker get away. Ammunition flew through the air from one side of the room to another, footsteps scrambling as shooters fought to gain a better position out this window or that, and then let loose with another barrage of firepower, so close to Loreena that some spent casings hit her back on the way to the floor. She sat low on her haunches, praying no stray bullet would find her flesh before it was all over.
“They’re down,” Raymond called over the noise. “They’re down!”
Loreena lifted her head. They were killing them all, a heartless ambush in a soulless town. She could imagine the bodies littering the floor of the old saloon and strewn about the muddy Main Street, the bikes fallen beside them, over them, crunching legs and feet and arms, tires spinning, blood mixing with the dirt and rain in a reddish-brown ooze. She knew she should feel something, but it was all just noise, men like Digger and Bert and John and Raymond slaughtering each other over power and territory, and the only thing she could think about was her brother down there in the midst of it all, fighting for a man who would step over his body as easily as he would a dry stick in the dirt.
“Some in the back,” Raymond called. “They’re getting away.”
Motorcycles roared past, at least ten of them one after the other, and then another five and another three. With foolish bravado they raced away down the muddy street. Loreena imagined them slipping and sliding as they maneuvered around and over the bodies, engines revving, limbs thudding against the frames. She got down on her hands and knees, making her way to where the air came in fresh through the glassless window frame, listening, hoping.
Please let Saul be okay.
The sound of the engines faded into the distance, the pitch sliding lower the farther they went. The gunfire died down, limited to a few stray pops. A tense silence settled over the block. The men waited, poised for the next attack, unsure of the status of their enemy. Shoes scuffed the floor, guns cocked, ammunition replaced.
“Boss,” Bert whispered, “you think that’s it?”
“Hold,” Frank said.
They waited. Loreena sat back on her heels and exhaled. Where was the FBI? Where was Shawn? Heartbeat after heartbeat she waited for some signal, but it was as if the living had left the town again, and only the ghosts remained.
It had all happened so quickly. Three main waves of shooting. More men on Frank’s side than she ever could have imagined. Was that all it took to wipe out an entire group of people? A little planning, a bunch of armed men, and an old ghost town? They would take her back now—back to the prison house and the granddaughter’s room and Mrs. Markos’s chocolate cream pie and more waiting for the next time Frank wanted her to kill. For what was there to stop him now? If he could do all this and sneak away in the night, what hope was there that she would ever get away?
Her thoughts turned to Mrs. Markos. A life in the club. With no escape.
Another sound, just underneath them. Boom. Loreena jumped. Footsteps clumped across the floor one level down, and then more footsteps started up the stairs, the occasional gunshot fired with a muffled pop, answered by a dying moan.
They were coming. Boots and more boots. This sound was different, the footsteps more confident, in sync with one another. Advance, pause. Advance. They were coming, with military like precision. Loreena stood up, hands on the wall behind her, gaze trained toward the door from which she had entered. She held her breath, afraid to hope.
“Who’s that?” Frank said.
“John,” Bert whispered. “John, you there?”
The door broke open. “FBI! Drop your weapons!”
Frank’s men answered with gunshots. Heavy footsteps thudded the wood floor as men on both sides sought cover, bullets searing the air to penetrate walls and flesh and bone. One of Frank’s men took a hit and fell hard.
“Drop your weapons!”
Loreena shrank back and covered her head. From somewhere on her right, another gun fired, and then another. More shots back from the officers. Would they know she wasn’t one of Frank’s gang? Had Shawn warned them about her?
“Get your hands up! Against the wall!”
Loreena’s heart thumped, hands sweaty inside her gloves. Rai
sing them above her head, she waited, hoping they could see her, hoping they wouldn’t shoot. Dare she call out to them?
“Go.” Frank appeared at her side, breathless and smelling of gunpowder.
“No!” she said. “Help!”
He pushed her toward the far wall. Loreena stumbled and fell into it.
“Fire, you bastards!” Raymond called from the window.
A new round of gunshots erupted from the far side of the building, all pointed toward the door. One of the officers was hit and fell back down the stairs.
“Don’t let them in!” Raymond said.
The Grizzly Riders unloaded the ammunition they had left. The FBI men fired back, but intermittently, most using the doorway for cover, some moving in and diving to one side or the other. Their shots were well placed. Bert took a hit and groaned. His fall cracked the floorboards.
Loreena struggled against Frank. His hand clamped firmly on her bicep, he maneuvered her in front of him, pushing her farther away from the shooting. She had to warn them, say something, but the gunfire and the shouts and the turmoil created too much noise. They would never hear her. Meanwhile, she and Frank passed the clothing rod and moved deeper into the space beyond.
“No.” It came out too soft. “Stop it!”
Someone fired from the far corner of the room. Another man fell on the floor. It sounded close. An FBI man? More shots came from the front wall, where Raymond had been stationed. He fired, his pistol emitting a steady stream of explosions. Amidst the confusion, Frank pressed his hip against Loreena so she couldn’t move. The feel of cold steel tucked in underneath her ribs.
“Another word and I finish you,” he hissed.
“We’ve got the place surrounded,” a voice said from the door. “It’s over, Frank. Give it up.”
Loreena fought to breathe, her chest constricted by Frank’s weight. She felt him looking left and right, his head jerking like a hawk’s. Then he pulled her up and around and started walking backward, dragging her in front of him, her arm wrenched up behind her back.
“I’ve got a hostage here,” he called. “Back off or she’s dead.”
Loreena tried to steady herself, but he pulled her off balance and she fell against his chest, her feet scrambling for a hold.
“Mr. Hellmer,” the man said from the door. “We’re bringing you in, no matter what. Drop your weapon and get your hands up. Do it now.”
Frank stopped. The wall was just behind them. They were trapped. Loreena waited, listening, muscles taut and ready to move. Any minute now he would have to release her. But then he reached down and grasped something. Turned. A flood of rain-soaked air blew in from behind them.
Another door?
He pushed it open. Loreena turned her head. Another door he hadn’t told them about. Of course he would have another escape. Even if all his men were killed, he was going to get away. With her! His hostage, his backup plan. She struggled anew, trying to wrench her arm from his grip.
“Help!”
He whirled and dumped her out. She stumbled forward, stopping her fall with her hands. Shots exploded behind them. They had entered some sort of a breezeway. Frank slammed the door shut, grabbed her arm, and propelled her into a run. Loreena resisted, but Frank wrenched her arm up behind her. She yelped, afraid he would break her shoulder. Again he pushed her forward, and she had no choice but to obey.
About eight steps later she ran into a wooden railing.
“Down those stairs. Go!” Frank pushed her to the right, releasing her arm.
She moved, crashing, stumbling, careening down wooden steps slick with rain. Frank hovered behind her, pushing her at every other step.
“Left, more steps.”
She turned, doing her best not to fall.
“Stop right there!”
Shawn’s voice. Loreena halted, both hands on the railing.
“Shawn,” Frank said, “get the van. They’re right behind us.” He pushed Loreena forward.
Two steps down.
“Loreena, stop,” Shawn said. “Don’t move.”
She froze.
“Get the fucking van!” Frank pushed her again. Down another two steps.
“Frank, let her go.”
“The FBI’s here. She’s leverage.” Another two steps.
Shawn cocked his gun. “I am the FBI.”
Frank halted then, exhaling explosive breaths on the back of Loreena’s neck.
“Let Loreena go,” Shawn said, “and put your hands up.”
Gunshots. Two from overhead. Loreena screamed and ducked, running down the last few steps until her shoes touched gravel, Frank heavy on her heels.
“Freeze!” Two FBI men on the staircase above them.
“Frank,” Shawn called from the right, “you’re surrounded. It’s over.”
No one moved. The rain had started again, a steady hiss except on the roof of the old buildings, where the wood amplified and lowered the pitch to sound more like bass drums. Gunshots fired in the distance, behind them, on Main Street, and south. Was it still the gangs fighting each other, or was the FBI closing in on Frank’s men? Loreena’s chest heaved as she stood waiting for her chance to break away, but Frank kept a tight grip on her arm. The seconds passed with her heart thumping in her ears, and then Frank bolted forward, pushing her hard.
“Move,” he growled, and they charged out and away from the building, running into the open night. A series of gunshots followed them.
“Hold your fire!” Shawn called. “There’s a hostage!”
Frank pushed Loreena ahead of him. She needed little encouragement, for now that they were out in the open she feared any moment the heat of a bullet would penetrate her skull. Shawn wouldn’t shoot her, but the others? It seemed they intended to get Frank no matter who was in the way, and besides, it was dark. How could they tell where they were firing? She ran and ran, her shoes soon leaving the gravel and plowing through muddy ground, splashing the legs of her pants, while Frank pushed from behind, urging her faster. Together they ran all the way back up the road they had come in on, muddy clumps clinging to their clothes, rain soaking them through. The shots diminished in number until there were only a few stray pops behind them, evidence a couple of officers were still on their tail. Was Shawn one of them? Loreena turned then and tried to get away to the side, but Frank grabbed her foot and dropped her to the ground. A moment later she felt the muzzle of his gun in the small of her back.
“Don’t try that again. Move!”
He grasped the collar of her jacket and pushed her forward, on through the rain and the mud until, with a hard shove, he slammed her into the side of a vehicle. She smashed her nose against the metal. Rainwater soaked her face. Frank opened the door, shoved her inside, and dove in behind her as another round of bullets pinged off the grille.
“They’re going to hit the damn radiator.”
She recognized the beer smell of the van as Frank crawled over the console and slipped behind the wheel. He found an extra set of keys in the glove box and started the engine. Another bullet hit the driver’s side door. They both ducked.
“Frank, get out of the car,” Shawn called, his voice muffled from outside.
He had followed them. Loreena opened the door.
Frank slammed the vehicle into reverse. She almost fell out as the tires spun in the mud. She screamed and the van moved and Frank’s strong hand gripped her arm, pulling her back in. With his other hand he jerked the steering wheel, angling them around to the left. From out of nowhere a bike approached, revved up, and then stopped. It sounded like it was right in front of them.
Frank clicked on the headlights, his hand still firm on Loreena’s arm. “Well, look who’s here.”
Loreena struggled against him. The bike’s engine growled.
“Guess your brother was no more loyal to the Grizzlies than you were.”
Saul? She screamed his name.
“Let her go!” Her brother’s voice came through the open door. “It’s o
ver, Frank. There are too many of them. You won’t make it.”
Frank put the vehicle in drive and stepped on the gas.
“Loreena!” Saul called.
The van barreled forward. Loreena leaned over and grabbed the wheel, steering it away to the right. Frank recovered and jerked it back. Loreena heard a thump. The van hit something, pitched up and over. She felt herself slipping out of the seat and out of Frank’s grip. He hit the gas again and yanked on the steering wheel. The door slammed shut in her face. The van skidded, careened onto the road, and sped away into the darkness, shots pinging off the back doors.
15
Loreena awoke on the floor of a car. A nasty bump rose just above her ear. Gradually, it came back to her—the memory of what had happened after they sped away from the ghost town, after Saul had parked in front of them and Frank had nearly run him over. Loreena had pulled on the steering wheel, and once Frank had straightened the van out again, he’d knocked her in the head with his pistol. She didn’t remember anything after that.
“Get up,” Frank growled. “We’re here.” He opened the door, the dome light casting a gray shadow over the interior.
Loreena blinked and felt around. Her gloves were still on her hands, but she was no longer in the van. When had he changed vehicles? This was a sedan, the back wide enough for her to lay out flat, the carpet smelling of old dirt and gasoline. It must have been part of his getaway plan, like the back door in the clothing building, like using her as a hostage. Pushing against the front seats, she got herself up on the back one, the bump on her head throbbing as if someone had sewed a bass drum underneath her scalp.
“Come on,” Frank barked from somewhere outside.
Loreena felt around for the door handle and pulled herself out. The scent of pine filled her nostrils, stabbing her heart with a painful memory of Dominic, as if he were standing right next to her. Why wasn’t the FBI here? Hadn’t Shawn tried to follow them?
Frank came up behind her and jerked her forward, holding onto her arm. The scent of his aftershave had faded, replaced by sweat and alcohol. Loreena wondered if he’d been drinking while driving. He must have found some uncharted road, she guessed, and driven like a madman to get away from them. The FBI agents were still on their feet when Frank drove away. They would have needed time to get back to their vehicles and pick up the trail, and there were still Frank’s men to contend with. In the end, most likely because of her, because Shawn had told them not to fire, Frank had managed to disappear into the night.
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