by J. M. Hayes
A big man, back-lit, stood in the window, weapon still to his shoulder. The sheriff recognized him before he spoke.
“That’s right, English. The next sheriff of Benteen County just saved your ass.”
“You didn’t have to…,” the sheriff began. He’d planned to continue that with kill them.
“I owed you one from that fiasco over at the school,” Greer said, climbing in the window. He pulled a bandana out of a pocket and wiped the sheriff’s face. “And for playing this whole campaign so nasty. But that’s just politics. Come on. Let’s clear this house. Chucky Williams is around here somewhere. As well as a bunch of hired killers.”
***
Someone had filled the casement window with dirt, replaced the glass with plywood, and plastered it over from the inside. How had Hailey managed to find it, let alone move all that earth and tear the wood away? All Pam had needed to do to help the wolf was shatter a little plaster, something Hailey could have quickly accomplished by herself.
It only took a couple of minutes to open the hole wide enough for Pam to crawl through, though it took a lot of twisting and wiggling to get out.
She hugged the wolf and thanked her and received a big sloppy kiss in return. But Hailey wasn’t interested in being hugged. And that made sense. They were under a series of windows that looked out across the yard toward the bins and warehouses. Easily spotted if someone happened to look out and down.
Hailey whined and grabbed the sleeve of Pam’s overalls, pulling her along the side of the building. Mad Dog’s wolf seemed to have more of a plan than she did. Pam followed. After no more than a few feet, she understood why. Steps led down to another hole in the ground. This one had been dug by the people who built this house, an outside entrance to the basement.
Pam followed Hailey down concrete stairs to the thick steel door at the base. There were scratches around the handle and along the bottom. Hailey had been here before. The big silver-tipped wolf dug at the corner of the door for a moment. Then she put her mouth on the handle and twisted. The door didn’t budge and Hailey turned and looked back at Pam and whined.
“I don’t know if I can help you with this one,” Pam said. If the wonder wolf couldn’t get in, what chance did a would-be Vegas lounge-act have? Still, she tried the handle. Locked, of course. She examined the door for weaknesses. She didn’t see any.
Hailey scratched at the door again, impatient, as if to say, Why did I bother rescuing you if you can’t be of more help than this?
Something shrieked in the yard behind them. Hailey continued to worry at the door, unconcerned. But Pam knew that sound wasn’t caused by anything natural. She climbed back up enough steps to peer into the farm yard. A wall was missing from one of the metal warehouses, and a Caterpillar was slowly crawling across the yard toward the house, blade raised so she couldn’t see who was driving. If that thing kept coming, she and Hailey would soon have another opportunity for getting inside.
Someone else must have realized that. The kitchen door slammed open, only a few feet to her right. A couple of muzzles emerged and she ducked just as several hundred rounds went singing off toward the metallic monster advancing on the house. She heard bullets ricochet off steel even over the racket of the weapons. Pam raised her head again, just far enough to see that the bulldozer was still coming. Its blade not only hid and protected whoever was driving it, but hid and protected the radiator and engine block as well. The only moving parts she could see were the tracks. Those weren’t going to be troubled by anything smaller than an artillery round. Maybe not even that.
The shooting from the house stopped. The men inside must have realized the same thing. They were going to have to find a better way to stop that thing. And then she saw a flash of something just over the top of the bulldozer’s blade. The driver had an automatic weapon of his own. Chips of brick, wood, glass and concrete exploded from around the kitchen door. A second batch tore up dirt in front of her face and convinced her to stop peeking and get back down and concentrate on that door with Hailey.
The guy on the bulldozer had seen her. Whatever chance she and Hailey might have had to make a run from this entry to the cellar was gone. And now, the guy on the bulldozer might come after them here. Or, when he got close enough, be able to shoot down into the stairwell and remove wonder wolf and friend from his list of problems.
Why wasn’t there a mat down here? People always kept keys hidden under the mat, didn’t they? Instead, the bottom of this stairwell was a steel grate over some kind of drainage so the first hard rain didn’t turn the well into a miniature lap pool.
What about the grate? She got down on her hands and knees and examined it. No, it was solidly implanted in the concrete that surrounded it. But there was one peculiarity. A bent paper clip was hooked over one of the steel bars. She grabbed it and lifted and found exactly what was supposed to be under a mat.
“Voila,” she told Hailey, and inserted the key in the lock and turned it. Another round of gunfire erupted from the kitchen. Return fire from the bulldozer whined off the top of the door as Pam opened it and followed Hailey into the dark room beyond.
***
Heather Number Two had never imagined modern farming required the kinds of machinery she discovered in the warehouse. Not that she made those discoveries very quickly. She’d just slipped away from Xavier and his friends when a burst of machine-gun fire sent her diving under the nearest piece of equipment—a backhoe with a bucket that looked big enough to trench your way to China. Actually, she spent most of her first few minutes under it studying one of the tires up close, because that first burst of gunfire had been followed, moments later, by a second. It hadn’t sounded close, though. Not as close as the first rounds. And there weren’t any more immediately after.
She thought she heard some cars, but it could easily have been the wind trying to slip breezy fingers under the metal panels of the building. The place groaned and creaked and when she thought she heard footsteps on the other side of the backhoe, she didn’t believe they were real. Not until she noticed the feet that accompanied them.
Heather scooted a little to the right and kept the tire between her and whoever those feet belonged to. It might be Xavier, though she thought he would be coming from the other direction if he’d been foolish enough to follow her out here.
More likely, it was Galen. But it could be the guy with the gun, too, so she took her time and risked a peek only after he was moving away from her.
It was Galen, sure enough, and headed toward a dusty window, likely as curious as she was about that gunfire. There was a tall metal cabinet up against the side of the window. He kept most of his body behind it while he craned his head around to see out toward the back of his house and the farm yard in between. She rolled over to the other side of the backhoe and moved behind another colossal tire that was closer to Galen. He had pulled a bandana out of his pocket and was using it to scrub at the window. He had a pistol in the other hand. Even if the gun had been temporarily out of play, she wasn’t sure she could take him bare-handed. He was bigger than she was and, damn it, guys were just naturally stronger. She was probably better trained, though she hadn’t ever been as good as her sister at martial arts. It had been more than a year since she’d taken a class or done anything but exchange a few playful kicks with One.
A shotgun would be nice, since she didn’t like guns and wasn’t much good with them. Englishman had made sure both his daughters could shoot, but he hadn’t forced either of them to do more than understand the basics. One was better than she was with guns, too.
Of course, there weren’t any shotguns lying around. A broom and a shovel lay nearby, however, just a few yards from the wall where Galen was peering into the yard. Someone might have planned to use them to clean out the clods of earth that still clung to the backhoe’s bucket. The broom wouldn’t do her much good, but the shovel might.
“Heather,” Galen said.
Oh shit, she thought, flattening herself back b
ehind that tire. He’d seen her. Caught her reflection in the window somehow. But he didn’t say anything else, like come out of there with your hands up. When she got her nerve back enough, she peeked around the tire. He was fumbling a cell phone out of his pocket, not looking in her direction.
Maybe he’d seen her sister out there somewhere. If so, he was planning to tell someone.
A starter turned over not far away. It froze both of them for a moment, and then Galen was moving along the wall, ducking past the cab of a semi truck parked on the other side of the backhoe. He folded the phone and put it back in a pocket. Heather darted to the wall, got the shovel and followed.
An engine fired up. Something big, but she’d expected that from the sound the starter made. Galen passed several more machines and then ducked around a dump truck big enough to handle ore instead of grain.
The big engine revved a couple of times. It wasn’t as close as she’d thought. At the far end of the warehouse, most likely. She sprinted after Galen. He wasn’t paying any attention to what was behind him, but he was sprinting now, too.
She followed him around the back of the first of a row of shiny new combines, just as the pitch of the engine changed yet again. Lower, throatier, it was taking on a load. She heard metal grate on concrete and then metal on metal, shrieking, as some of that metal tore.
Heather saw it then. Big and yellow and moving not much faster than she could trot. It was a Caterpillar, and someone had just decided to drive it through the wall of the warehouse.
Galen stopped. His gun hand came up, but too late. The cab followed the rest of that hulking machine out into the farm yard.
Heather slowed, swung the shovel back. She wanted to hit Galen’s gun arm. She didn’t want to bean him. That might kill him.
She was ready to swing when he started sprinting again. It took her a moment to follow.
Galen ran straight to the middle of the hole in the wall. He brought the gun up again. He was going to shoot whoever was driving that Caterpillar in the back. She went full out, bringing the shovel off her shoulder in a sweeping blow. He realized she was there at the last instant and jumped and the flat of the shovel slammed into his shoulder instead of his arm because he’d tried to aim the gun at her instead. It didn’t matter. He howled as the gun went skittering across the building’s concrete floor. And then a hail of bullets came screaming through the opening the Cat had torn as it exited. Someone was shooting at it, from the house, and that put Galen and her in the line of fire.
She hadn’t even noticed the other Caterpillar until she turned around to run. Another, smaller one, with its blade resting on the floor. The perfect shield, and she dove for it. Something slapped her on the hip before she got there and sent her rolling into the treads instead of fully behind the blade. Her leg went numb and she felt something moist running down her hip and thought she was hit. But she couldn’t make herself check her own wound. Her eyes were locked on Galen, now doubled over on the concrete, holding his belly with his one good hand. The hand wasn’t enough. Something wet and ropy oozed around it and spoiled the floor. So did Two’s lunch.
***
Greer went through the door, low, covering the hall leading into the house, but swiveling to look back toward the garage. English might have shot Greer if the sheriff hadn’t dropped his pistol to grab guns from the two men who lay on the floor at his feet and stained the carpet.
If he had, it only would have been to wound. And even that was just something he liked to imagine. He needed help, as usual. Also, as usual, the kind he’d get wasn’t what he’d had in mind. For the moment, it seemed, he’d have to put up with Greer’s cowboy, shoot-first style.
The sheriff dropped the long arms on their recently deceased owners and recovered his pistol. Then he followed Greer into the hall.
“Check the garage,” Greer said.
“Check it yourself,” the sheriff nearly answered. But Greer was the expert on house-to-house combat, so English nodded and said something else. “Several innocent and unarmed civilians may be here. Don’t shoot anyone unless you absolutely have to.”
Greer grinned. “You either. Neuhauser’s in there with these hired guns. He’ll back our play when we get to them.”
Oh good, the sheriff thought. The guy who’d pulled a gun on him earlier this afternoon was going to have the opportunity to do it again. But he didn’t say anything. He ducked down the hall and went into the garage. There were three vehicles in it. The white Ford he’d followed here hadn’t quite managed to stop before it flattened its front end against the back wall. Its trunk was open. There was a dead body in there, and a trussed up and angry highway patrolman. Englishman recognized them both, the boy from the accident and the asshole who’d taken pot shots at his daughter in the school parking lot. He left them both where they were.
Next was a Dodge station wagon, similar to the one Deputy Wynn had chased across the county until he ran into that school bus. And last, an emergency medical services truck, the kind city fire departments use to respond to 911 calls. This one was marked AMBULANCE, though with no indication of a jurisdiction.
The ambulance took longer because he had to open the back and make sure no one was inside. Greer was at the door between the house and the garage when the sheriff finished his sweep.
“I was beginning to think you ran into problems…or just ran.”
“Garage is clear,” the sheriff told him. “You want to take the left side of the hall and leave the right to me, or you want back-up at each room?”
“Let’s each work doors. I think everybody’s in the kitchen where the action is, but when we go in there we need to know our backs are clear.”
The first door on the sheriff’s right was the one with the two dead farmers in it. With the window out, someone else could have entered, so he gave it a quick look again.
The next room held a pair of single beds with personal items scattered about. Two people were using the room, if the pair of duffel bags was an indication.
Next, a bathroom, surprisingly feminine. In it, four tooth brushes and shaving kits were neatly laid out military style. The men guarding this house weren’t mobsters. They were professionals. Government? Military? Mercenaries? He waved Greer over. “Pros,” he said.
“Yeah,” Greer said. “We knew one of them in Iraq. A hired gun.”
They each had one more room to sweep. The sheriff’s had a small bathroom of its own. Someone had gotten preferential treatment, but not a squad leader. There were suitcases in this room, enough clothes to last a month. The double bed wasn’t made and the bathroom was messy. This guy might have hired the others, but he wasn’t their equal.
“Three people living in the rooms on my side,” the sheriff said. “Five toothbrushes in two bathrooms, though.”
“Two sharing one room on my side. The other rooms were empty.”
“So five, anyway, and Galen Siegrist,” the sheriff said.
Greer shrugged. “There’s another wing.”
They were at the spot where the hall opened out onto the living room, which was also empty. There was one more door, the kitchen most likely. That’s where the shooting had been coming from. It was quiet now, except for the throaty rumble of a big motor.
Greer offered a grenade to the sheriff. “Flash-bang?” he said.
The sheriff declined.
“Okay, then. Follow me.”
Greer put a shoulder to the door. The sheriff followed, but Greer didn’t clear the doorway.
“Damn,” the lieutenant said. “You again?” And then, “What’s with the bulldozer?”
***
With so many other weapons going off, Deputy Heather decided a quick burst into the window she’d already damaged wasn’t likely to be noticed. She pointed the gun at the bottom edge of the glass and tapped the trigger. The tap resulted in four shots, and a new series of holes radiating spider-web cracks more or less where she wanted them. She used the gun’s butt to turn the cracks and holes into an ope
ning big enough for her, then followed the gun into the room.
It was a master bedroom, complete with a pretty fancy bath containing a custom shower and a whirlpool tub. The bed was neatly made, but there was nothing to personalize the room. It had all the mandatory furniture, but the only things that told her Galen Siegrist slept here were pictures of his parents and a pair of portraits on the wall. One was a Jesus whose features appeared more Nordic than Semitic. The other was an angry old man she thought she should recognize but didn’t. She wasted no time on drawers or closets. She had one thing to do—make sure nothing bad happened to her father.
The bedroom door opened onto an empty hall and across from it, an office—unused. Galen must prefer the one in the warehouse. It was a big office, though, with windows facing west and south. The bulldozer was walking across the farm yard behind the house, slowly closing the distance between itself and the people who were spraying it with machine-gun fire. She slipped back into the long hall, down which the sound of that gunfire echoed. She followed it, checking the rooms on either side as she went. A second master suite, also occupied, though from the look of the suitcase, temporarily, and another, smaller bedroom with its own bath. More suitcases, so it was also being used by someone passing through. There were stairs to the basement, as well, and then a formal dining area off which a vast and empty living room opened on a door to the front yard and the nose of her father’s pickup. No people, though, so she focused on the swinging door she thought must lead to the kitchen.
She paused there. When she went through, she needed to do it right. She moved her badge from inside her jacket and pinned it over her heart. She checked her weapon. She didn’t know much about it. She knew it used bullets in a big hurry and that she would inevitably run out before long if she continued pressing that trigger. It seemed to have a pretty large magazine, though, and all the automatics she knew about always locked the breech open when they’d fired their last shell. This one’s breech was just the way it had been before she’d hosed a couple of buildings and blown out a window. What was still in there would have to be enough. Especially since she didn’t intend to shoot anyone.