by L. J. Martin
"You think we can follow?" I ask Pax. "It looks like lots of underbrush out there."
There's a fallow field for the first two hundred yards, an orchard of some kind to the west, but riparian brush and trees up ahead.
Pax is studying a Google Earth picture on his laptop, then glances up. "All we can do is give it a try. We can always flip a u-turn and head for the lab and give a heads up to security."
"Fuck that. These guys are up to no good, tried to cook the ladies after doping them, and would probably get off with a malicious mischief charge even if they got nailed. Better we solve the problem."
"It's equivalent to about six city blocks, maybe three quarters of a mile, until we're even with the back of the lab. They should be easy to track in the mud and sand."
"Yeah, but they can get across the river with that breather, and we can't if it's over a foot deep and I'll bet it's twice that."
"You're due for a bath anyway. It can't be more than a couple of hundred yards from the river to the security fence, so we'll hoof it."
"Swim it and hoof it, probably."
"Fuck it, it ain't that cold out."
I make my way to the back of the van and dig out an S&W15 and a couple of extra clips. We suit up, adding vests, and I get my little 22 Mag five shot and strap it on in its ankle holster. And we take off, into the lion's den.
Pax is driving with just his parking lights. He's having to weave in and out of hundred-year-old cottonwoods, a few aspens or elms, and lots of river willow which is ten foot high and thick in spots…a good thing, as it occludes the view of us following. A bad thing as we might drive right up on them without realizing they've stopped.
We've got good starlight, and I realize it must be nearing dawn as the moon is over the mountains to the east and was due to rise at 4:30. Now it's a benefit to us as it's casting moon shadows. Pax is able to kill even the parking lights.
"We've got to be getting close," Pax says as he's watching the odometer.
"Let's move up on foot. I'd hate to drive up on them."
So we unload. As usual, Pax leaves the keys under the front seat in case one of us gets back without the other. We're still dressed dark, and Pax still has his night vision scope on the SASS and I have my night vision binocs, so, hopefully, we have some advantage.
Trying to stay at least twenty yards apart so as not to both be taken out with the same burst of automatic fire or spread of double ought buck, we stay low and move around the thick cottonwood trunks and through the willows.
After less than a hundred yards we come upon a flow of water, only ten yards across and barely ankle deep as we cross. It has to be a side channel, not nearly as large as the main river. The tracks of the jeep have charged right on across as if it's nothing, and it shouldn't be as the jeep has a breather at least five feet off the surface.
Then we're in thick brush again.
I freeze as the stop lights on the Jeep flare brightly, not thirty yards in front of me.
28
I hear someone shout "Don't slow down," and the Jeep charges into the main river. I can see the water flare to both sides in the moonlight.
To be truthful I'm hoping there's a ten foot deep hole out there in the forty yard wide river, but doubt it, as I'm sure they've reconnoitered this crossing, and they barely slow until they're climbing the bank on the far side.
As soon as they top the rise they're out of sight again. The crossing is little deeper than the side channel had been, and now I'm pissed we didn't come on with the van, it can't be another couple of hundred yards to the security fence, so it's probably just as well.
I top the rise on foot, not wet even up to my knees, and realize Pax is out of sight. With one leg slightly shorter than the other and lifts on one shoe, he may have had trouble crossing, but I won't mention it.
Pulling my handheld out, I give him a buzz, and get a buzz right back. I whisper, "Let's join up. Work your way up river and I'll sit tight."
"Roger," comes a whispered reply. "They've stopped about a hundred yards ahead."
I wait until I can make him out, easing out of the river willows only twenty yards from me, and move to join him.
"You okay?" I ask.
"When the fuck wasn't I okay," he snaps back.
"Sorry I asked. You flank them on the left, I'll do so on the right. If they try and cut or blow the fence, I'm ready to send them to hell."
"Righteous," he says, and we again split up. I find a log and get prone behind it, throw the safety on the S&M15, then pick up my night vision binocs and zero in or what's going on up ahead, and see two guys are unloading—thank God there's enough light to spot the targets in my scope if I'm convinced who they are and what they're doing via the night vision binocs. One of them carries what looks like a satchel charge. I lay down on him and begin to put pressure on the trigger, when an explosion rocks me and I recover to see flame and smoke billowing from somewhere in the front of the complex.
I guess the three guys in the pickup have been busy as well. I'll be pissed at myself if they've taken out the guard shack and a couple of guards along with it.
So I drop the guy with the satchel, stitching his back with a three shot burst from my hundred yard position. At almost the same time I hear the 7.62 roar off to my left. The second guy who'd exited the Jeep has hit the ground so hard I'm sure it's being slammed down from a centered head-shot. I get a glance at a reflection in the moonlight and think it's the spiked-hair guy whose spikes are now filled with bone, blood, and brains. No problem for Pax at a hundred yards. But it could be a very big problem for both of us if he's the undercover guy. He was one of the three in the Phillipsburg Jail, and I'm sure one of them was at least an informant, if not an agent or lawman.
The Jeep is slammed into reverse and is throwing mud out in front of it as it spins all fours coming back, its engine screaming.
Another 7.62 shot roars in the night and the rear tire on the driver's side flattens as if a balloon burst, then another shot, almost as fast as the bolt could be thrown, and the passenger side tire also explodes. The driver grinds the gears and then is slathering forward. Pax fires again and the driver's side front tire explodes and the Jeep careens to the left and slams into a downed cottonwood that's at least three feet in diameter. He's not climbing over that one.
I put a burst through the back window, and it explodes as if a satchel charge was set off behind it.
Silence.
Then the driver's door opens and two hands emerge as if the arms and body they're attached to are lying down in the seat. An attempt, it appears, at surrender.
I'm not interested in surrender, but I'm less interested in shooting down some son of a bitch who's trying to do so. I'm very disappointed when Arnold Rostov emerges from the Jeep with his hands on his head.
And I so wanted to blow the son of a bitch into hell.
In my best bounty hunter mode, I yell out as I get to my feet, "Feet back, hands on the vehicle, legs spread." And he does so as if he's done so a dozen times before.
Pax and I both move forward until we're a dozen feet from him, when a voice rings out behind us.
"Drop the weapons, and don't fucking twitch or you're both dead."
Pax and I glance over at each other, both of us thinking that what do we have to lose, when a high-pitched female voice follows. "Please, please, do as they say."
We both still have Glocks in the small of our back, so both of us sigh and let the long arms fall to the ground. It sounds as if they have one of the young ARA women with them, and the last thing I want to do is spray a college age do-gooder coed with lead.
We turn slowly to see the big Indian, Charley Many Dogs, holding a handgun; Maggie McFadden has an evil grin and is holding a pump shotgun; and the badass Hutchins holds what looks to be an AR15 and he, too, is laughing.
Maggie stops her cackle long enough to chide us with a voice now two octaves lower than the girlish one she'd just used. "You dumb fucks thought I was one of those stupid
young cock-sucking college girls, didn't you?"
"Doubt it, Maggie," I can't help but say. "You flew a broom here and they couldn't."
"Fuck you, Reardon."
"You got no chance of that, you crusty old rotten bitch."
Charley Many Dogs snaps at them. "You two go over and frisk them."
"Why keep them alive?" Hutchins asks.
"Hostages, until we get to the plane."
Hutchins shrugs, and growls at Maggie, "Come on."
But they only take two steps, as Many Dogs has holstered his weapon. He steps forward and with his massive ham sized hands reaches out and smashes their heads together. Maggie goes down flat on her face as if he'd hit her with a boulder and Hutchins sinks to his knees. Many Dogs smashes Hutchins across the side of the head with his heavy semi-auto hard enough that it sounds like a watermelon has been dropped from a second storey window.
Both Pax and I are going for the Glocks in the small of our backs, but Many Dogs is panning his weapon back and forth from one of us to the other and has his other hand extended, palm out.
"Don't draw those. I'm FBI. The sheriff put me wise to you guys or you'd be full of holes. An FBI team is on their way here from Missoula…but they're still thirty minutes out."
Pax and I glance at each other, both slightly astounded. Then we realize something we hadn't noticed. Then I say, "And you're the last one I figured…."
I yell at the Indian, "Damn it, Rostov is gone."
29
Many Dogs drags Hutchins and McFadden over to a twelve inch diameter cottonwood and puts the cuffs on them, her right wrist to his left, her left to his right, circling the tree.
"They got bears in this forest," I advise him.
"Hungry ones I hope," he says. "You have no idea what pricks these people are."
"Oh, yeah. They were gonna burn three of their members alive."
He stares at me a moment, then I can see his jaw harden. "They said they were leaving them tied up and would call someone to find them when this was over."
"They left them drugged up, unconscious, on the floor of the main building while that white haired prick spread gasoline and lit it up."
"And?" he asks, looking like he might be sick.
"And we got there in time."
"And you turned Pasternak over to the sheriff."
"Not exactly, but you don't want to know."
He shakes his big head slowly. "Yeah, what I don't know won't hurt you."
"Let's go after Rostov."
He gives the Jeep a frustrated glare. "You fucked up our ride."
"Our van is back aways, as is my Harley. We got rides."
I take off at a brisk walk.
"Good. We left two bikes parked a block from the lab in their confederates carport…Rostov's V-Tec and a smaller Yahama. I'm sure that's where Rostov is headed."
"Let's beat him there." I move it up to a fast jog.
Many Dogs yells behind me. "I doubt it. The son of a bitch is in real good shape. He runs five miles every morning up and down the canyon and bench presses four hundred."
I look back over my shoulder. "I'll take the Harley. You guys catch up in the van."
"Gray and pink house on Desta and South Fourth."
"Got it," and I go ahead and break into a run. Pax can jog five miles hardly working up a sweat, but a flat out run is hard on his short leg. However, I'm sure he can keep up with the three hundred pound plus FBI man. "Turn the ring up on your phone. Stay on your radio," I shout behind.
I don't bother with the ramp, but gun the bike out of the van, almost losing it in the soft sand. But I get control and am out of the field and on the road in less than a minute, and hit it hard on W. Main back into town. Then I realize I have no idea where 4th and Desta is, but the first cross street I come to is 9th, and they're going down. I mentally flip a coin and turn right on 4th, which takes me south and I think he said south 4th, and am a block from its end when I come to Desta.
It's beginning to be light, but I have to stop in the center of the intersection to try and make out which house is pink and gray, then spot it and a motorcycle in its carport. And it's a Yamaha. If the V-Tec was there, it's gone. Now, where the hell would he head to? The airport of course. They have a plane chartered. Then, before I can gun it, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.
"Yo," I answer.
It's Pax. "Any luck?"
"Nope, he's gone—."
"We're headed for the airport. Take Main Street east, it swerves north…watch for the signs."
"Got it." I retrace my route.
If a cop sees me hauling ass through town, running the town's only stoplight and breaking the speed limit by at least twice, he'll be after me. Which might not be all bad, as he can help out. I swing north and soon find a sign pointing east to the airport.
The van is waiting, idling at the parking lot entrance, when I roar up alongside and find Pax driving and Many Dogs in the passenger seat.
He yells over the noise of the bike, "The V-Tec is over there next to the building, but I don't see our guy."
"A plane?"
"A half dozen on the tarmac. No lights anywhere. You head north along the runway, we'll go south." And he peels out, so I comply. As soon as I get clear of the buildings I realize there's not a plane on my end of the runway, but turn the bike and head out so I can see its full length. And sure as hell, there are running lights on the far end, a half mile away, and they're headed my way. I notice a nearby windsock, facing away from me, so takeoff will start from Pax's end heading into the wind.
Then I spot the van. Pax has also rolled out onto the edge of the runway and I see his interior light come on. He must be exiting the van.
The plane's landing lights come on and it's roaring my way, then I see the muzzle flash of the SASS, and pray that it's our guy Rostov trying to escape in what appears to be a v-tail Bonanza, and not some doctor off on a jaunt. The crack of the 7.62 reaches me.
The plane is headed north, my way, nearing take-off speed…but suddenly a tire goes flat and it veers off the runway, crosses fifty feet of taxiway and tangles with one of the parked planes, wing on wing sparks flying, and spins. Then its tail hits another wing on a second plane and lights up the night with a flash and a gargantuan roar—the explosion of aviation fuel—as the Cessna it hit explodes in a ball of fire.
The Bonanza is blown over on its top, one wing ablaze, and I'm sure it'll blow all to hell in a heartbeat.
30
But it doesn't blow and I doubt they can get out the door, as a Bonanza door is curved over the top of the fuselage and I know the full weight of the plane's on it. Then I see they've kicked the windscreen out and are coming out under the engine… two men on all fours. They hit the pavement and are up at a dead run. The taller and broader of the two, who I'm sure is Rostov, is already twenty feet in the lead, and rounds a building corner and is out of sight. The Bonanza goes up with a resounding explosion. The runner following Rostov is blown off his feet, but is managing to recover as I kick it into low gear.
There's no way I can get back before he's to his bike, but I spin the wheel, throwing gravel out behind and fishtailing as I give it the old college try.
Before I'm halfway, another plane, this time a twin, goes up with an explosion that damn near knocks me down and the heat sears my face…but I manage to get her back on track. Just as I reach the edge of the small terminal building, I see a taillight already two hundred yards ahead and disappearing into the growing light.
Then, far ahead, I see a big black vehicle slide sideways in a billow of dust, attempting to block the road. But Rostov doesn't slow, and before anyone can exit the vehicle, I see muzzle flashes then hear the reports of four shots coming from the rider, not from what now looks to be a Ford Expedition. Its windows are spider-webbed from Rostov's gunshots.
The front passenger side door opens as I close the distance and I slow just long enough to yell at a guy who's pulling his weapon. He has on a black vest and I can
just make out FBI in gold letters.
I hold up a hand, palm extended, and shout "You guys okay?"
"You Reardon?" he asks, and I nod.
"We got a man down in the back. We're calling for a medevac."
"I'll get that prick." I glance over my shoulder to see my van, Pax driving, closing fast. But I don't have time to shoot the bull if I'm to get a shot at stopping Rostov, and gun it around the expedition just in time to see the big Honda three hundred plus yards ahead lay hard into a fast left hand turn.
Let's see, what is likely to be a hundred mile an hour plus chase and I didn't bother to grab a helmet? What the hell, you'd die anyway if you piled it up at a hundred plus, so you might as well die fast.
The wicked looking V-Tec is a faster bike than my Iron, but I think my Iron is way tougher, and as I'm cruising along behind Rostov I'm pleased to see he turns east onto the Skalkaho Highway, knowing that it becomes gravel and dirt after a few miles. The only thing better would be if he tried to lose me off road, as I've spent many days in the Nevada and California deserts, although they were on a Yahama dirt bike. Still, I think I can take him easy if he gets off road.
When we hit the dirt, I try and close the distance. It's full light and he can see me easily in his rear view as I close to within a hundred yards…and it's plain he does, as he kicks it in the ass and begins to pull away. The good news is when he hits eighty on the dirt, the curves are coming fast and furious, and there's no way he can get anywhere near top end under the conditions. The bad news again is he's kicking up dust and even some gravel, and it's gonna be tough to close on him.
I know that Pax and Charley Many Dogs are back behind us, kicking up even more dust than we are in the van.
We're riding into the rising sun, and as it's low over the mountains, it's blinding. With any luck he'll take a tree head on and solve my problem. Before long there's a creek on the north side of the road, and we're following it, with the road taking every turn it does.