McConnell wouldn’t be using the scope. The field of view was too narrow, and he didn’t have a spotter. Good snipers love their spotters. Because good spotters keep snipers alive. They are their eyes on everything that isn’t the target. Without a spotter, a good sniper felt naked. It was a symbiotic relationship. But one McConnell didn’t have.
McConnell was working on a couple of assumptions. All erroneous. He figured Flynn was hiding in the tires because he was out of ammunition. He figured Flynn would want to get the women out as priority one. He figured they would try to leave via the driveway, in their vehicle.
He was wrong. Flynn was armed. Flynn’s priority wasn’t Beth. It was McConnell. Because Flynn was confident Hutton would get Beth out. And he was equally confident that Hutton would not use the driveway.
Flynn stayed low. He got into a crawl and kept to the deep shadows within the tire fort. He had time. McConnell would wait. That was what snipers did best, even better than shooting. Lots of people can shoot. Not so many can wait. Perfectly still. For hours, or days, or weeks. Flynn crawled across the gravel. It bit into his elbows and knees and ankles. He slithered his way to the back side of the tires. Keeping hard up against the tires, he stood and edged to the point closest to the farmhouse. It was McConnell’s weak point. In order to get maximum coverage of the turnaround and the driveway, he was on the slope of the roof angled down on the side. He was blind to the drop away on the other side, toward the field. And he was blind to the drop directly below.
Flynn took three fast light steps across the open space to the side of the house. Then he slipped the shotgun under the pine railing onto the back porch of the house. He climbed up the same way as he had earlier that day. Nice and slow. Minimum noise. He was glad he had surveilled the location earlier, not just for the fact that he now had a shotgun. He also knew the house. He took up the shotgun and stayed to the edge of the porch and moved to the wall of the house. Then on his toes he moved along the wall. The boards gave some, but they didn’t creak and groan like they would in the middle of the porch. He reached the door and eased it open, just enough to slip inside.
The interior was dark. But Flynn knew the lay of the land. And he knew the floors would creak just as much in here as on the porch. Nothing to be done about it. He couldn’t stick to the walls. There was too much furniture and the detritus of farm life. Magazine stands and floor lamps and wood for the fire. So he gave up silence and traded it in for speed.
He held the shotgun high and ran around the ratty sofa and made for the kitchen. The floors groaned and the walls shook. There was a transition between the floor in the main space and the floor in the kitchen. The toe of his boot hit it and he stopped on the mark. And fired into the ceiling. It was old plasterboard. Above it was a corrugated iron roof. The shot hit the ceiling and a torrent of plaster rained down. Flynn adjusted his aim slightly and fired his second shot. More plaster rain and the shot of pellets hitting sheet metal. And a grunt. A human grunt. Then the sounds of movement, like a giant raccoon scampering across the roof.
Flynn ran for the front door. He broke the shotgun open as he did. Pulled the two shells from the breech and stuffed them in his right pocket. Pulled out his last two shells and pushed them home and snapped the gun shut as he burst through the door. McConnell had jumped from the roof and hit the gravel and rolled. He was on his way up, breaking into a sprint. He ran toward the tires. He still held his sniper rifle. Snipers hated to lose their rifles. It was ingrained in them. Sniper rifles were very expensive, so armies trained their snipers not to lose them. It was good financial sense, but a bad move tactically. The weapon was long and unwieldy and put McConnell’s motion all out of kilter. Over the course of a mile he would probably end up running in a circle. But he didn’t get a mile.
Flynn splayed his feet across the front porch and tucked the Remington tight into his shoulder and lined up the iron sights. Then McConnell stopped running. Hit the brakes hard and skidded on the gravel. In one fluid move he discarded the rifle and spun around and dropped into a crouch and came up holding a handgun.
Flynn’s Glock.
McConnell fired. He was a good shot. Not the best ever, but good. Under duress, with an elevated heart rate and blood pumping hard, he steadied a handgun and fired at a distance of about twenty yards. Ox Dennison would have been fifty-fifty to hit the house. Flynn would have been ninety-five percent to hit a target on the range.
McConnell’s shot hit Flynn. His left triceps. His arm was up and angled, supporting the shotgun. McConnell’s shot was slightly wide but took muscle with it. The pain stabbed at Flynn like an ice pick. He dropped back against the front of the house, grabbing at his arm. Blood ebbed into the fabric of his shirt. Some field medic somewhere would have grinned and called it a flesh wound. But Flynn had been shot before—through and through—in the chest. And this hurt more. But it wasn’t gushing blood. It wouldn’t kill him. Not today. He gritted his teeth and pushed away from the wall. McConnell was still out there. He had gotten his shot away.
But so had Flynn.
Flynn had his sights right on target. He knew he’d hit. He just didn’t know how bad. He stepped down off the porch and crunched across the gravel. In the light of the fires and single remaining headlight, he saw the divot in the gravel, where McConnell’s boots had bitten into the ground as he’d stopped and spun. But McConnell was not there. His sniper rifle lay where he had dropped it. Flynn’s Glock lay nearby. Flynn picked it up and looked at the drag marks in the gravel.
McConnell had retreated to cover. Into the tire fort. He had dragged himself behind the turret Beth had been tied to. She was gone. McConnell was still there. He was using one arm to pull himself along the ground. The other arm didn’t appear to function anymore.
“McConnell.”
The Scotsman stopped. He lay motionless for a time, then he used his good arm to roll over. Flynn kept the shotgun aimed at him. McConnell was a mess. He had worn the shot all over. The bull’s-eye was centered on his chest. His face was a bloody mess. One eye was a mass of red pulp. He was bleeding from a thousand holes. He was hit in the side of the neck and was choking on his own blood. He needed to sit up. He tried but couldn’t do it with one arm. Flynn wasn’t in a helping mood. He crouched by his old Legion brother.
“Who are they?”
McConnell gurgled.
“The eight. Who are they?”
McConnell spat blood. “They are your worst enemy. And your closest ally.” He seemed to smile. It may have been a grimace. Flynn stood and looked down at McConnell. He thought about walking away. Then he thought about Ox Dennison coming back from the dead. There would be no more coming back from the dead. Not for any of them. He looked at his Glock. It was the humane thing to do. One shot and McConnell was out of his misery. Flynn would do it for a dog. He aimed at McConnell’s forehead and saw him brace his jaw.
Then Flynn pulled away. Dropped down again so he could hear McConnell’s voice.
“Back in Iraq. My guy, Babar. Was that them or was that you?”
McConnell wheezed and gurgled. Bubbles of blood popped from his throat. And then he smiled. Through the ragged flesh of his face, he smiled.
“Babar the elephant man.” McConnell coughed. “He cried like a baby.”
Flynn stood. Aimed the Glock at McConnell again and watched him set his jaw once more. McConnell waited, and then frowned.
“Do it,” he spat. “Do—”
He choked on the second word. It was his last. Flynn stood over him and waited. Until his chest stopped and the bubbles in his throat stopped popping and the blood stopped moving through his body.
Then Flynn walked away.
He moved slow, across the turnaround. To the Yukon. His daypack was inside. He removed his coat and wrapped duct tape around the wound in his arm. Duct tape was as good a field dressing as there was. But he made sure to put in on the outside of his shirt, because taking it off skin was a chore. He knew that for a fact.
He slipped
his coat back on and walked across to the tire fort. To the side by the house. He found Cameron Dennison. She was not in good shape. The butt of the shotgun had really messed her up. Probably both cheekbones, definitely her nose. She was only semiconscious. She was lying where she had fallen and sucking shallow breaths through her mouth.
Flynn found Hutton’s Glock lying on the gravel a couple of feet away. He pocketed it and then crouched in front of Cameron. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask her any questions. He just held the shotgun with the stock low and the barrel at Cameron’s face, and he leaned back and turned away and pulled the trigger.
The sound was loud, but no louder than having the gun tucked into his shoulder. He wiped the trigger and the stock and then dropped the shotgun next to Cameron’s body. He stood and turned away and looked around. For no reason, he thought of Rudyard Kipling. His poem, If.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you . . .
Chapter Thirty-Four
Flynn called for Hutton but got no response. He searched around the tires and looked out into the darkness of the fields. He walked through the barn, the machinery silent. He pushed out through the door partly hidden in the wall. As he stepped back outside, he saw it. The storm door, built into a cement collar in the ground. Not an entrance, but an exit. Except that now it lay open. Hutton had been in there, hidden, when Flynn had first visited the farm. Beth had been secreted away through the tunnels below it, from wherever the old Dennison family moonshine still was hidden.
He started up the Yukon. He backed out, and then had a thought and hit the gas and drove forward fast and turned toward the tire fort. Hit the drum full of gasoline at speed. The drum collapsed and gasoline spilled across the tires. Flynn pulled back and used the turnaround and pointed the one headlight down the driveway. Watched the rearview mirror as the gasoline spilled and sparks from the remaining fires descended gently into it and it burst to life. There was no explosion. Nothing so dramatic. Just the beginning of a long, slow burn. His breathing remained steady, but he was under no illusion that this fire wouldn’t also come back to haunt him later.
He drove up the road and hit the fence line he had used before, and bounced up the hill to where his lookout had been. Stopped behind the pines and cut the engine and called for Hutton. Waited and called again. Waited a whole minute and called again.
“Keep it down,” she said from the darkness. Hutton was holding Beth up. Beth didn’t appear hurt, but her motor skills were frazzled. Her brain had shut down. Flynn had seen it before. Fear can be truly debilitating. Flynn asked if she was alright, but she didn’t respond. He helped her into the truck.
“Is she okay?” he asked Hutton.
“Physically, yes. Lucky rubber’s a slow burn. The fumes would probably have gotten her before the flames did.”
They drove back to the main road in silence. The lights were on in the diner. There was one car in the lot. The waitress’s car. Flynn stopped and went inside. He wasn’t sure if she would remember him. Her memory wasn’t so good. But she looked up and offered him a nod. Then she frowned at his condition. He was covered in ash and gravel and dirt and sweat and blood. His trousers had holes at the knees and his coat was torn at the elbows.
“You’re here late,” Flynn said.
“I figured you’d be back. Or not.”
“Thanks for waiting.”
“Did you win?” she asked.
He nodded. “Can I get three bottles of water, and three slices of pie to go?”
She fished three bottles from a beverage fridge and put them on the counter. Then she put a single piece of pie into a container. Flynn said nothing. He patted his pockets for some money.
“On the house,” she said.
He nodded again. “There’s a big fire out there. At the Dennison place.”
The waitress shrugged. “That was always the risk. All those tires.”
Flynn drove back to New York. He thought in passing about finding a hotel, for everyone to freshen up and maybe get some sleep. But a look in the rearview mirror told him Beth would not be sleeping. He drove on in silence. They arrived in Manhattan as the morning broke. Flynn left the Yukon in the garage below Hutton’s building. She said she would take care of the truck. Hedstrom knew a guy who was good with that sort of thing. Beth washed up in the bathroom in Hutton’s offices.
While Beth was cleaning up, Flynn took the downtown train to his bank. He went through the same process. He drank the espresso and waited for his box. When he was alone, he opened the secure box and returned the Glock he had taken from it. He returned the knife and the duct tape but kept the cash. He pulled out his old backpack and replaced it with the daypack the bank had given him on his last visit. Then he took out a Ziploc bag. John Flynn written on the front. He took a moment to look at the name. In the bag there was nothing more than documents. But those documents represented something. Or someone. Someone he had not had the chance to become as a young man, and had then been given a chance to become a decade later. Now he felt that chance had slipped away. He thought, perhaps, that it was someone he was not destined to ever become.
But he had come to a decision. He was not becoming someone else again. He was who he was—like everyone, the product of his experiences, good and bad. He opened the bag and took out the wallet, his ID, his passport. Slipped them into his pockets. He bore his mother’s last name and his father’s first, and that was how it should be. That was how he would go on.
He got back to find Beth sitting in Hutton’s office. She looked better, more alive, but not complete. Flynn left her to her thoughts and found Hutton in her conference room.
“Is she okay?” Hutton asked.
“Alive,” he said. “Otherwise, I don’t know. You know how these things go. When you see the worst that people can do, it changes you.”
Hutton nodded. “Are you okay?”
“Alive,” he said. “How are you?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t really learn anything about why I got forced out of the Bureau.”
They stood in silence for a time, looking at each other.
“She’ll understand, with time,” said Hutton.
Flynn watched her. Hutton meant what she said, but he knew that understanding was not acceptance. Nothing would be the same. Dreams would come to Beth and she would deal with them or not. She might enlist professional help. But in the end, what happened in the mind was the sole domain of the landlord. No one could change you or fix you. They could set you on the path, but they couldn’t climb inside and rearrange the furniture. He knew that he, too, would continue to face his demons, but he had had a lot more practice.
“What will you do?” Hutton asked.
“Work the problem.”
“They’re out there, aren’t they?”
“It would seem.”
“They won’t give up.”
“It’s unlikely.”
Hutton nodded. “If you need me . . .”
Flynn nodded and stepped to her and they wrapped their arms around each other for a moment. Then they separated and walked back to Hutton’s office.
Hutton offered to drive them back to DC. He told her it wasn’t necessary but he knew it was a futile argument. They retraced their steps back through Baltimore and down the parkway and into the capital. They drove mostly in silence. Hutton dropped them at the Watergate. She wished Beth well and Beth thanked her for saving her life. A simple thank you didn’t seem to cover it, but there were no better words available. Hutton looked at Flynn across the hood of her car.
“Au revoir,” he said.
Hutton smiled. “You said goodbye this time. That’s real growth.”
Flynn nodded. “I owe you.”
Hutton shook her head, opened the door and slipped back into her car. The window on the passenger side buzzed down.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Hutton said, and then she drove away.
Flynn and Beth flew to San Franc
isco early the following morning. Beth had processed events enough to function but not enough to forget. On the flight she came up with the story she would tell her firm. There were likely criminal activities associated with the prospective client, and the firm would do well to stay well away from them. The partners would buy that and be thankful and give her a one-time grace for the expenses and unbillable hours.
When they got home to San Rafael, Flynn unloaded his backpack on their bed. Then he repacked it. He took everything he figured he’d need and nothing he didn’t. He strapped it on his back. It felt like a second skin.
Beth didn’t ask him to stay and he saw all he needed to in her eyes. She loved him, he knew that. But there were words stuck in her mind that would haunt her. Words she might learn to suppress but which would never be forgotten. McConnell had asked which woman should burn. And Flynn had said Beth. She would understand in time that he had chosen her for a reason—the best chance for her survival. Hutton was the better equipped to save them both, so Beth had to be the one McConnell was focused on. But logic would fight that battle and lose. Bridges had been burned. Her eyes would never again fall on him in the same way.
“They won’t come again, if I’m not here,” he said. He hoped it were true. The kidnapping had been Dennison’s idea, and his side of the equation had been taken out. Flynn pressed a piece of paper into her hand. “But if there’s ever any reason you think they have, use this. I’ll come.”
He kissed her as a tear ran down her cheek, and then turned and walked out onto the street. A cold morning in the Bay Area. There was a ring of cloud around Mount Tam, but otherwise a bright blue sky. A perfect day for leaving. A perfect day for marching.
Flynn settled the pack on his back and marched down past the Mission San Rafael. It was a good thirty-eight kilometers to Petaluma, staying off 101 where possible. He would be there before the businesses closed for the day. He’d rest up and then break east the next morning. Toward Sacramento and then Reno and then Utah and Colorado.
Burned Bridges Page 27