An American Bullet

by John Stonehouse

  “Into town?” the chief says.

  The dispatcher nods, eyebrows raised, still listening in on a head-set.

  The sheriff peels back the sheepskin coat. He tightens his gun belt. “No way they're blowing in and out of here.”

  Concrete stands rise above the trees to Belaski’s left; the main stands of a football stadium. He sees the tower of a college campus, surrounded by mid-rise buildings, more trees.

  Loop-roads run in and out of the subdivision, he works the Jeep along a service road, a mall development to the north, commercial units, used car lots.

  The cruiser's nowhere. Gone from sight.

  He watches Lauren DeLuca in the rear-view, muttering something to her brother, in back.

  “Quit yapping,” Belaski says.

  Lauren cranes her head around, catches his eye in the rear-view. “He needs to take a pee.”

  “Too bad. Let him piss in his pants.”

  He sees the flash of anger that passes behind her eyes.

  “You get off?” she says. “Making people's lives a fucking misery?”

  Belaski cracks a flat laugh. “You sell out on people, this is what you get.” He shakes his head. “Cause and effect.”

  Ahead is a junction, a fork in the road—one branch leading toward housing, toward the town, the other leading east, back out to open country. He steers the Jeep up the left fork, headed for town. Checks again in the rear-view, looking back along the road.

  Something—something is in the rear-view mirror.

  The road curves, passes a disused barn, blocking off the view.

  He sits up straighter.

  Thinks of slowing, trying to get another look.

  The road straightens, he presses down harder on the gas.

  A side-street is coming up ahead. He steers left, accelerating into it.

  Fifty yards up is another road—he makes a right. He’s running parallel with the original street. He makes another right, at the next junction. A semi is parked at the curb, he cruises up behind it in the Jeep.

  He pulls in, brakes to a stop.

  He can just see past the semi to the road he turned in from.

  From the back seat Lauren says, “What’re you doing?”

  The nose of a police cruiser rolls into view.

  It passes the end of the lane.

  Then it's gone.

  Belaski holds the image of it, burned onto his retina.

  One man.

  Driving slow.

  If it was following him—why drive slow?

  Angled across the main road into town is a black and white police car. Kinawa slows the unmarked Crown Vic, Whicher eyes the two men approaching from the side of the road.

  The taller of the two is in police uniform. The second man wears a sheepskin overcoat and Cutter hat.

  Kinawa rolls the window. The warmth inside the car vanishes. “FBI,” Kinawa says. “Your patrolman sent us through from the highway.”

  “Chief Eriksson,” the tall man says—he gestures at the man in the sheepskin coat. “And this is Sheriff Colton.”

  “You the fellers out of Rapid City?” the sheriff says.

  Whicher opens up the door, steps out. “Name’s Whicher. With the WITSEC program.”

  A gust of wind scours snow into the air as Chief Eriksson studies him.

  “What’s the latest y’all have?” the marshal says.

  “State Patrol had a unit following at distance,” the sheriff answers. “They think they've come in here.”

  “They think?”

  “Orders were to hold off, not get up real close. I have deputies covering the county roads to the south, and south-east.”

  “Police units are in position,” Chief Eriksson says. “North and west, at all the main strategic points.”

  “The trooper unit was pretty sure they came in here,” the sheriff says.

  Whicher scans the wide open streets of the town. “You're looking to lock the place down?”

  Colton pulls on the brim of his hat. “If they came in, they're not going back out.”

  Eriksson looks from Whicher to Kinawa. “We'll find them, if they’re in here.”

  “How close did the Patrol unit get?” Kinawa says. “Could they see into the vehicle?”

  Eriksson twists his mouth. “They’re saying caucasian male driving, plus a woman in back, possible blonde. We’ve got the main exits covered off. We'll see them if they try to leave.”

  The sheriff looks at Kinawa. “Who are these people?”

  The FBI agent steps around to the rear of the Crown Vic, pops the trunk. “That Jeep Liberty is the personal vehicle of one of my agents. We can’t get hold of her.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Kinawa leans in, lifts out a bullet-proof vest marked FBI. “Meaning we can’t raise her, she’s not answering any calls, we don’t know where she is.”

  “Who’s the blonde female?” Chief Eriksson says.

  “A federal witness,” Whicher answers.

  “My agent was with her,” Kinawa says, “providing escort.”

  The sheriff scratches at his ear.

  “We think the guy driving is most likely a mob guy,” Kinawa says, “out of Chicago.” He puts the vest on over his suit jacket, reaches in the trunk, takes out spare magazines for a .40 caliber Glock.

  “The last contact we had was five minutes ago,” Eriksson says. “Down near Fulton College.” He gestures south, over his shoulder.

  Kinawa buckles up the straps on the Kevlar vest. “Whoever this guy is, he’s bad news. He could do anything if he’s crazy enough to shoot an FBI agent...”

  “We don't know he shot her,” Whicher says.

  “Is there any reason to believe she’s in that vehicle?”

  Chief Eriksson and Sheriff Colton exchange glances.

  “The guy's not doing any more damage,” Kinawa looks at Whicher.

  “I've got a town to protect,” Eriksson says, “plus the safety of my officers. I won’t have them taking any risks...”

  “We sure as hell don’t want them getting out of here,” the sheriff says. “The rest of the county is farm land, ranches—last thing we want is anybody holing up.”

  Kinawa takes out the Glock 23, checks it over. “We take no chances.”

  Whicher looks at each of the three men in turn. “We need these people alive.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Behind the Redwood Police Department black and white, a State Patrol Interceptor pulls across the lot of a taco restaurant. It crosses the twin-lane carriageway, slowing to a stop behind the cruiser.

  Chief Eriksson places a Xeroxed map onto a clipboard.

  Kinawa steps forward. “I’m calling federal jurisdiction on this.”

  The trooper shuts off the motor on the Interceptor, gets out.

  “You want to take this over?” Sheriff Colton says.

  Whicher stares at the side of Kinawa's face.

  “FBI has the legal jurisdiction.”

  “Marshals Service ranks with that,” Whicher says.

  Kinawa cuts him a look. “You have a problem?”

  “With you running this? I sure as hell do. Y'all have the experience?”

  “What do you have?”

  “Command of an army scout platoon, USMS training on manhunts, outside of swarm tactics...”

  “We're not going to be swarming anything,” the chief says, “with the handful of officers we have.”

  The state trooper approaches the group, Campaign hat between his hands.

  “Any chance of Scottsbluff sending up a helicopter?” the chief says.

  “Too cold,” the trooper answers. “Icing conditions.”

  The marshal glances at the sky.

  Chief Eriksson holds a marker pen over the map attached to the clipboard—he rings four circles around the town. “This is where we have units—officers at each of these locales.”

  Kinawa studies the map fluttering in the wind.

  “Lot of holes,” Whicher says
. “We need a stronger perimeter.”

  “We were asked to intercept,” Eriksson says, “not contain.”

  “We don't have enough units to ring the place,” Sheriff Colton adds.

  “State Patrol can have units here in under an hour,” the trooper says. “With specialized teams, SWAT, K-9.”

  “There’s no time for that.” Whicher turns to Sheriff Colton.“Y’all have two deputies to the south?”

  Colton points to two spots on the map. “We’ve got ‘em there looking for the vehicle—they’ll be in place to pursue.”

  “Suspect was last seen south of town,” the trooper says, “traveling north.”

  Whicher scans the town beyond the main drag. “How big is this place?”

  Chief Eriksson answers; “We're about five thousand. Plus the college population. But classes are out, it's holiday season.”

  Kinawa digs a thumb behind the bullet-proof vest. “What would you advise, marshal?”

  “Assuming they're in here...”

  “I saw them turn in,” the trooper says.

  Whicher looks at the sheriff and the chief, each in turn. “If they drove in here, what're the odds of them driving right back out? Is it all plains land, is it flat, what is it?”

  “It's a mix,” the chief answers. “There are woods to the south east...”

  “My deputies are there,” the sheriff says, “they'd spot 'em.”

  The marshal studies on the map. He looks at the trooper. “If you sit on the highway east of town, you can move up or down from there.”

  “Yessir.”

  “I've got more officers arriving at the PD,” Eriksson says. “We need to seal off the southern end of town, stop people from going in.”

  “They may not even be down there,” Whicher says. “We get the perimeter established, we'll go in and find out.” The marshal looks at Kinawa. “You and me,” he says, “in that...” He points at the unmarked Crown Vic.

  Kinawa nods.

  “Sheriff,” Whicher says, “I need for you to ride shotgun on the flank. Take a man with you. Use a marked vehicle.”

  “How about Sergeant Hooper?” the sheriff says.

  Eriksson inclines his head. “Hoop can do it. Hoop's a good man.” He turns to Whicher. “Listen, I want to ride along with you. This is my town, my ass.”

  “Chief, you need to be in the center, in contact with all units—you know this place, you can make the right call if we flush ‘em out. If we find ‘em, if we set 'em up, they're going to run, they ain’t about to stand and fight.”

  “You don't know that,” Kinawa says.

  Whicher adjusts the Ruger in the shoulder-holster, pats down the Glock. “The gaps in the net are too big. We flush 'em out, we have to move faster than they move. Otherwise, they're gone.”

  A Honda sedan is coming up the street behind him—parked at the curb, Belaski watches through narrowed eyes.

  He takes the SIG from the side pocket in the Jeep’s door, places it in his lap, the muzzle pointed at the steering column.

  The Honda fills his rear-view, he hears the motor on it, its tires deadened by the snow.

  It's not slowing.

  It's rolling on, drawing level.

  He eyes the driver as it passes by—a white-haired senior behind the wheel.

  The car keeps on till it reaches the intersection ahead—it makes a left, toward the town.

  The cruiser was following.

  It had to have been following.

  They couldn't reach Rimes, they’d want the vehicle, want it found, want it stopped.

  He lifts his foot from the brake pedal.

  Lauren DeLuca’s staring at him in the rear-view mirror—electric-blue eyes boring into his.

  He yanks down on the wheel, pushes on the gas.

  The Jeep slews sideways, tires gripping as he steers out into the street.

  Above the snowed-up roofs of the houses, the outline of the college tower stands alone against the sky. Belaski drives to the intersection, makes a left, following after the Honda.

  He powers the Jeep up the road to the next intersection. Cranks the steering right.

  “You saw that police car,” Lauren says. “You saw it just as well as I did.”

  The Jeep drifts around the corner, sliding on re-frozen ice. “Yeah,” Belaski says. “So, you want to go say hi?”

  Whicher drops the magazine on the Glock, presses down on the top round—feels the spring push it back.

  He checks the brass-jacketed round is snug, the magazine full, he refits it.

  Holstering the semi-auto at his waist, he reaches in under his jacket, takes out the big Ruger revolver.

  He opens up the cylinder. Spins it. Flicks it closed.

  Mid-morning, a Nebraska town, the depths of winter on the Plains. Traffic’s light, people going about their business.

  He lets the gun rest against his leg.

  Kinawa steers the unmarked Crown Vic, pausing the car at the mouth of an intersection.

  Sheriff Colton and Sergeant Hooper from the PD are on their left flank—two-blocks over.

  The marshal checks the side-street to his right, staring out of the passenger window.

  Kinawa checks the block to the left.

  Two streets over, the sheriff and the sergeant do the same.

  Fifteen miles-per-hour, running parallel—between them they can cover four streets at a time. Fifteen minutes, Whicher reckons. Twenty minutes, tops, they can comb the southern end of town.

  Kinawa holds the Crown Vic on the brakes.

  “No sign up there,” the marshal says.

  “You don't think they're here, do you?”

  “I guess we’re going to find that out.”

  The FBI man looks at Whicher. “How come you have your gun out?”

  “Army habit.”

  “If they’re here, if we find them, I don’t see how this could work out...”

  The marshal doesn't respond.

  “What’s the guy have to lose—if he took down an FBI agent?”

  “Don't go there in your head,” Whicher says.

  “He killed a US Marshal in Fisherville...”

  “We don’t know it’s the same guy.”

  “Nobody’s reporting any sign of Janice Rimes.”

  Whicher twists in his seat.

  Kinawa's grip is tight on the wheel. “Whatever this woman did, this Lauren DeLuca, her brother Anthony wasn't responsible for any of it.”

  “You mean to say something by that?”

  The FBI man pushes on the gas pedal. “If we find the Jeep, this bastard doesn't get to leave.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The black SUV rolling across the intersection has white letters on its door.

  County Sheriff's Department.

  Belaski stares at a man on the passenger side—he’s wearing a Western hat, a sheepskin coat. His face is agitated—he shouts something to the driver.

  The vehicle brakes, skids to a stop, three-quarters of the way across the intersection.

  Belaski mashes down on the accelerator, the Jeep lurches forward.

  Right fender in line with the back of the SUV, he grips the wheel, locks out his arms.

  The Jeep strikes the back of the sheriff’s vehicle—windshield shattering. Belaski stabs the brake, whips the gun from his lap.

  He aims, fires six rounds through the passenger window—the bullets blowing out two windows on the SUV, smacking steel.

  Both the men inside are ducked down—the driver hits the throttle full-out.

  The SUV heaves forward, tires spinning—it tears away from the intersection.

  Belaski punches a hole in the Jeep's crazed windshield with the butt of the gun.

  Lauren's laid out across the back seat, her knees drawn up.

  Cold rage inside, Belaski stomps the gas, barreling the Jeep along the street to the next intersection, tires floating on the frozen snow.

  He steers toward the tower looming over the roof line, heart-pounding.<
br />
  Cars pass behind, horns blasting.

  He stares through the fist-size hole in the fractured windshield, face numb in the cone of glacial air.

  Animal speed is in his mind.

  Speed and a raging pulse of violence.

  He gets off the gas, brakes, feels the wheels slide, then grip.

  At a dead stop, he pushes open the driver’s door.

  He jumps out, rips open the back.

  Lauren DeLuca stares up at him.

  “Get out.”

  She recoils.

  He points the muzzle of the SIG an inch above her supine body. “I shoot your brother right here.” He angles the gun at the seat back. “Or you get out.”

  He leans in grabs at her, pulling on her coat.

  She scrambles, pushes upright, zip-tied hands on the seat, trying to swing her legs.

  He pulls her off balance, rips her from the vehicle, dumping her out into the street.

  “Get up...”

  A voice calls out from behind him; “Hey, what's going on?”

  Belaski spins around.

  A man is standing by a wood-frame house, clearing snow from a driveway—shovel held in mid-air.

  The man steps back as Belaski raises his gun arm.

  Lauren struggles to her feet.

  Jamming the muzzle hard above her kidney, Belaski pulls her forward along the snow on the sidewalk. “You can run or you can die, now. You can die here anytime you want...”

  Whicher stares through the windshield of the Crown Vic at Sheriff Colton. He’s at the rear of his SUV, weapon drawn, the back of the vehicle smashed up.

  Aiming over the roof is Sergeant Hooper.

  They’re on the edge of the street, fifty yards from Janice Rimes’s Jeep Liberty.

  The Jeep’s right side is bent up, body panels scraped, the front fender twisted.

  A black and white patrol car is racing up from the far end of the next street.

  It turns sideways, blocking the route out.

  Kinawa brakes nose-on to the curb.

  Through the side-window, Whicher sees two patrol officers and Chief Eriksson exit the black and white. Weapons drawn, they run behind the vehicle—level their guns across the roof.

  Whicher gets out, stays low, crouching to the road.

  The rear windshield of the Jeep is smoked glass, he can't see in.