Some Die Nameless

by Wallace Stroby

  “Chambers.”

  “Call him. He’ll be coming with me. I’ll need someone to fly the chopper once we’re there.”

  “You want me to head down first, scout it out?”

  “Not necessary,” Kemper said. “You’ll have your hands full here.”

  Right, Farrow thought. You go hide. Leave me to clean up the mess.

  “Is that it?” he said.

  “If anything else occurs to me, I’ll have Winters call you.”

  “You do that,” Farrow said, then turned and left.

  He ignored Winters and Reece when he passed them in the foyer, walked out to the Bronco. He was on his own now.

  Farrow got in, and Holifield started the engine. They headed back down the driveway.

  “I need two good men for some work tonight,” Farrow said. “Contractors, off the books. Ask Dillon if he knows someone can be trusted, won’t fuck it up.”

  “Tell me what you need, boss. We can get it done.”

  “No,” Farrow said. “Trust me. What happens next, you don’t want to be anywhere near.”

  Thirty-One

  Driving home, Tracy tuned the radio to KYW 1060, the all-news station, wondering if they’d picked up the update she and Alysha had filed. For the first time, they’d named Kemper, Farrow, and Harlin in the same story. No one at Unix headquarters or Harlin’s office had returned their calls, but she knew the effect the story would have. It was the first domino. The others would start falling soon.

  Rain began to spot the windshield. She switched on the wipers, took out her cell. No new calls or messages. She set it on the passenger seat. If there were still no callbacks tomorrow, she’d have to drive down to Virginia, start knocking on doors.

  The check-engine light blinked on, the muffler rattled. A gust of wind pushed the car slightly. There was little traffic in either direction, nothing but woods and road in her headlights.

  She had to watch for deer here, had a near-miss the previous fall. Coming home after a late shift, she’d caught a glimpse of glowing eyes behind the guardrail, and a big buck had vaulted over it onto the road. She’d stood on the brakes, the Toyota slewing to the side, and braced for an impact that never came. The deer had vanished as quickly as it appeared. A half hour later, she was still shaking.

  The rain began to come down harder. Static crackled on the radio. She wished she’d had a last cup of coffee before leaving the office, just enough of a bump to send her home alert.

  From nowhere, a dark shape filled the rearview, loomed over the car. She saw her taillights reflected in a steel push bar.

  The impact jolted her forward against the shoulder harness, just as she heard the taillights shatter. You’ve been hit, she thought, and then the Toyota was slammed forward again. Something scraped and fell away from the back of the car with a tearing sound.

  She gripped the wheel, floored the gas pedal, fear sweeping through her. The engine whined and hesitated, the transmission lurching as it failed to engage. High beams flashed on behind her, lit the inside of the car.

  The next impact shook her in her seat, hammered the car forward. She heard the steel bar crunch into the Toyota’s trunk. She twisted to look behind her, was blinded by the high beams.

  When she turned back, the road curved away, woods ahead. She slammed the brake, already knowing she wouldn’t make the turn, the vehicle behind her pushing hard.

  The guardrail rose up in front of her.

  When she came to, the deflated airbag was in her lap, the chemical smell of it filling her nostrils. She didn’t know how long she’d been out. The engine was running, steam hissing out from under the buckled hood. A horizontal crack ran across the bottom of the windshield. The wipers were still going, pushing away the rain.

  One headlight was out. The other showed woods. The Toyota had gone off the road and down the steep slope, had come to rest wedged between two trees. It was canted to one side, the driver’s side higher.

  She felt strangely calm. You’re okay, she thought. You’re alive. Now you just have to call for help.

  One thing at a time. She switched off the ignition. The engine sputtered and died, the wipers stopped in place. The dashboard display glowed, but the check-engine light was out.

  There was pain in her forehead and knee. She felt her face, but there was no blood there. All right, she thought. All right. You can walk away from this.

  Where was her phone? She felt the seat where it had been, saw it on the passenger-side floor. She bent for it, couldn’t reach it, the shoulder harness holding her back. Fumbling with the buckle, she unsnapped it, then fell into the passenger seat, her legs wedged under the wheel. Not too graceful, she thought. She hitched her knees, felt for the door latch, tugged. The door creaked, protested, and swung open abruptly. She tumbled out onto the wet ground.

  She lay on her back, feeling the rain, then rolled onto her hands and knees, tried to stand. Her feet slid out from under her. She reached for the door to catch herself, sat down hard in the wet grass, her back against the car. Water coursed around her, sluicing from the roadway. Below her, the slope led into thicker woods, the trees there close together.

  Okay, she thought. That wasn’t so swift. Try again.

  Dizzy, she reached for the open door, gripped the armrest, tried to pull herself up.

  “Hey, lady, are you okay?”

  She looked up, saw the man standing on the shoulder about fifteen feet above her. An SUV had pulled over, engine running, hazards blinking. She could see the rain in its headlights. There was a gap in the guardrail where her car had gone through.

  She raised a hand to him, heard a car door open and close. A second man joined the first. Two silhouettes up there, looking down at her.

  She reached for her phone on the floor, fell short, and slipped to her knees in the mud.

  “Hold on, there, ma’am. Don’t be moving around so much. We’re coming.”

  A bright flashlight beam shone down into the car. She knelt there, resting, then gripped the door again, pulled herself up.

  Leaning against the tilted roof for support, she watched the two men pick their way carefully down the slope, the flashlight beam bouncing. It steadied on her face as they got nearer.

  “It’s okay,” she said. She raised her hand again. “I’m all right.”

  “You will be,” the first man said, and then the front passenger-side window popped and starred. She looked at it, wondering what had happened. Then she heard another snap and cough, and something struck the roof of the Toyota, whined off past her ear.

  They’re shooting at you, she thought. Why would they do that?

  The driver’s-side window cracked and collapsed. She pushed away from the car. Another shot holed the rear window. Her feet lost traction on the slick grass and she fell onto her back, rolled, and slid farther down the slope. She came to a stop where the ground leveled off at the edge of the woods. Palms in the mud, she pushed the ground away, stood.

  The two men were at the Toyota. They shone the flashlight into the car, then on the grass around it. She held her breath. The light beam crept down the slope, panned across the ground in front of her, then up her legs and onto her face.

  She turned into the trees and ran.

  Thirty-Two

  She went from tree to tree, pushing off one for the momentum to reach the next. It was starting to rain harder. Fear was a solid thing inside her.

  About thirty feet in, she stopped, looked back. They were standing at the bottom of the slope, still short of the forest, talking. She couldn’t make out the words.

  The flashlight beam pierced the woods, swept along the ground about five feet from her. When it moved farther away, she chanced it, turned and went deeper into the woods, hoping the rain would cover the noise. Her jacket sleeve caught a branch that whipped back at her, stung her face just above her right eye, made her cry out.

  The light tracked toward her fast. A snap and cough, and bark flew from the tree to her right. She pushed away
the branch, kept moving. Another crack. They were using some sort of silencer, the shots not sounding like gunfire at all.

  Don’t move in a straight line, she told herself. You’ll make an easier target.

  She could hear them behind her now. They’d been reluctant to come into the woods at first, but now they were pushing through the underbrush. She moved behind another tree, her back against it, tried to catch her breath. There was a mad fluttering in her stomach. She thought she could hear her own heartbeat.

  She felt her pockets, angry she’d left the phone in the car. The can of pepper spray was still in her right-hand pocket. It had been there since the night she’d first met Devlin. It was no use to her now.

  A shot kicked bark off a tree about ten feet to her left. They had no target, were trying to panic her, get her to run, show herself. Did they both have guns, or just one of them? Was one the spotter, the other the shooter?

  Rain pattered in the branches above her. The flashlight beam moved toward her, then away, strayed far to her left. She turned and began making her way through the woods again, tree by tree. Her foot caught on something and she pitched forward, hit the ground.

  The flashlight beam snapped toward her, and two shots sounded almost as one. She heard bullets pass through the trees above her. She rolled behind the log that had tripped her, looked back toward them. They were coming closer, but taking their time, being careful.

  Behind her, there was a faint glow on the other side of the woods. There might be a house there, or a street. She was too scared to move, too scared to stay where she was.

  A shot kicked up mud to her right.

  “Shit,” one of them said. “Jam.”

  She knew what that meant. Now, she thought. Do it. Move.

  She got to her feet, ran toward the glow, staying low. A branch raked across her face. She leaped over another log, kept running.

  “There she goes,” one of them said. A louder shot behind her, echoing in the woods, no silencer this time. Two guns.

  Almost at the edge of the woods now, the light bright through the trees. Suddenly, the ground sloped away below her. She was moving too fast to stop. She fell forward, landed in mud, slid down a few feet to where the ground was flat again.

  She lay there, stunned from the impact. She was in a backyard. A pole light lit up an expanse of bare dirt, a row of small single-story houses. All the windows were dark. Condos or apartments, she thought. Never finished. Empty. No one there to help you.

  Another loud shot behind her. As if on cue, the rain picked up, sheeting past the pole light. She heard one of them cursing. They were coming through the woods. When they reached the top of the slope, they’d see her. She wondered if she’d hear the shot that killed her.

  You can’t stay here, she thought. You have to move. Now.

  She got her feet under her, ran to the first door, twisted the knob. Locked. She moved to the second. This time the knob turned, and she swung inside, pushed the door shut behind her. Two locks, one on the knob, the other a dead bolt higher up. She worked them both, heard them click.

  She backed away from the door. The top half of it was four panes of glass. Light came through, lit a stretch of wet linoleum floor. An unfinished kitchen. There was a wide countertop, but an empty space where the sink would go, a window above it. The floor was slick, and a steady drip came from the ceiling.

  Beyond the kitchen, a short hallway led to another empty room. A living room, likely, with a front door.

  She stayed out of the light, leaned against the counter. The rain on the window made liquid shadow patterns on the floor. Her forehead stung. She touched the skin above her right eye, felt blood where the branch had hit her.

  She’d counted seven units, seven doors. Had they seen which one she’d gone in? One of the men would go around front, she guessed, watch the doors there, in case she made a run for it that way. Stay here, she thought. Keep away from the windows. If you’re lucky, you can hide here until they give up.

  Voices in the backyard, closer than she expected. She held her breath, tried to hear what they were saying above the rain. Were these the men who’d tried to kill Devlin? They’re hunting you now, she thought. And they’re right outside that door.

  A rattling noise on the other side of the wall. They were trying the door of the first unit. She heard glass break, then someone moving around inside. They’d be coming in here next.

  An hour ago you were safe and warm, with friends, in a place you belonged, she thought. And now this is the way you die. Scared and alone and cold.

  She took the pepper-spray can from her pocket, gripped it tight. If she could, she’d try to get one of them before they killed her.

  The flashlight beam came through the door glass, lit up the wall beyond. It moved closer, grew brighter. To reach the living room, she’d have to run through the light and past the window, offer a target. The doorknob rattled.

  One of the lower panes shattered, made her jump. Glass fell to the floor. A gloved hand came through, deftly unlocked the dead bolt, then reached down, felt around for the knob. She heard the click as it was unlocked. The hand withdrew, and the knob began to turn. The door opened slowly, the hinges creaking.

  The man had long dark hair, combed back and plastered down by the rain. A scar bisected his lower lip. He opened the door halfway, pointed the gun inside. It was in his left hand, the flashlight in his right. He eased his head in, paused, listening.

  She acted without thinking, threw herself against the door. The edge of it caught him across the face, pinned his head against the jamb. The flashlight fell to the floor inside, rolled. She raised the pepper-spray can, held it an inch from his eyes, and thumbed the trigger button. Thick red mist sprayed out. He screamed, and she fired another burst into his open mouth, held the button down.

  The gun went off, loud in the enclosed space. He pulled his head back, freeing it, and she slammed the door on his left wrist. The gun fell. She kicked at it, sent it spinning across the wet floor.

  Glass broke behind her. Front door. She turned to see a figure come through the darkness of the other room, fill the doorway there. There was a pop, and something hit the wall near her head.

  The gun, she thought. Get the gun.

  She dropped the pepper spray, dove for the gun on the floor. She got ahold of it, fumbled as she brought it up, her finger finding the trigger.

  The gun went off before she could aim, the muzzle flash lighting up the kitchen. She fired again, the trigger not seeming to need any pressure at all, felt the recoil up to her shoulders. The man threw himself through the doorway and back into the other room. She fired a third time, saw the bullet plow wood from the doorway trim.

  She slipped on the slick linoleum, fell, then got up again, pulled the back door open. The man there was on his knees in the mud, gagging and coughing, hands over his face. She went past him, running. Her momentum carried her up the slope. She slipped once, got her footing again, and then she was in the trees.

  She tossed the gun, not wanting to look behind her, kept going. Branches slashed at her. Then she was out of the trees, and at the car, its one headlight still shining, dimmer now.

  The interior light was still on, the seats littered with bits of safety glass. She saw her phone, grabbed it, started up to the road. There was yelling behind her, back through the woods, one of them blundering through the trees.

  The SUV’s engine was running, the hazards and wipers clicking as if in rhythm. She saw the steel push bar on the front grille, what they’d used to ram her, send her off the road.

  She tried the driver’s-side door. Unlocked. The keys were in the ignition.

  More shouting behind her. She climbed up behind the wheel, pulled the door shut, and hit the armrest button, heard the door locks snap. Then she shifted into drive, cranked the wheel to the left, and pulled off the shoulder, spraying gravel behind her.

  In the rearview, she saw a figure come up over the guardrail. There was the blur of a muzzle fla
sh, and a bullet pinged the back hatch of the SUV.

  She hit the gas. Her eyes stung, tears coursing down her cheeks. Some of the spray must have blown back at her.

  She powered down the window, put a cupped hand out into the rain until she had a palmful of it, then wiped at her eyes. It eased the burning, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

  Thirty-Three

  A​nother night in a hospital, Devlin thought. This time he sat in the waiting room, watching the closed door to the emergency unit, hoping someone would come out and talk to him.

  There were a half dozen others in the room, looking up at a TV mounted high on the wall, the sound low. A Hispanic woman held a toddler who was crying quietly. Rain washed down the big windows of the emergency-room entrance.

  The security door opened and Dwight Malloy came out, looked around and saw him, crooked a finger. Devlin got up. Malloy spoke to the guard at the desk, then held the door open. Devlin went through.

  “In here,” Malloy said. He pointed to an unoccupied treatment room, drew the curtain shut behind them.

  “How is she?” Devlin said.

  “Scared. A little scratched up, but she’ll be okay. She’s tough.”

  “I know.”

  “She said she called you. She tell you what happened?”

  “Some of it. She was upset, but trying to keep her cool. Doing a good job of it, I thought. There were two men involved?”

  “We have them. New Hope police found them walking down the road in the rain. One was still messed up from getting a faceful of pepper spray.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Both have long sheets, and one has an outstanding warrant. Bad guys, but not exactly criminal geniuses. She ran them both ragged. We recovered two handguns at the scene. The SUV they were driving was stolen. We’re charging them with attempted murder, aggravated battery, auto theft, B&E, vandalism, and anything else we can come up with.”

  “Are they talking?”

  “No, they lawyered up,” Malloy said. “Joseph John Avril and Theodore Lewis Statt. Those names mean anything to you?”