But Not Forgotten: A Clint Wolf Novel (Clint Wolf Mystery Series Book 1)

by BJ Bourg

  Mark shook his head. “But Malcolm does. He kept tabs on every step of your investigation. As soon as that address was called over the radio, he had Walter go out there and silence her before you could get to her.”

  I was thoughtful. “But what about the McKenzie boys? Did Walter kidnap them, too?”

  “Walter found them snooping around and thought they might’ve seen something, so he tied them up and left them for dead.” Mark frowned. “That’s when I knew Walter was losing it—he was going too far. I tried to stay away from him. I didn’t know what would set him off next.”

  I squinted. “So, it was Walter who tried to kill me?”

  Mark shook his head vigorously. “He wasn’t trying to kill you. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. No, he couldn’t kill you because we needed you to be our patsy.”

  I mulled over what I’d just learned. A thought occurred to me, something that had been bugging me all day. “Why’d y’all pick me as the fall guy? I mean, there must be hundreds of people who hate the governor just as much or more than I do.”

  Mark lowered his eyes. “At one of the—”

  A twinkle of glass and a slight movement of the curtain to my left brought my head around. The sound was immediately followed by a sickening splat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mark’s head contort as blood, bone, and brain matter sprayed across the back of the recliner.

  CHAPTER 51

  I instinctively dropped to the ground and scurried across the floor as bullets from a fully automatic weapon ripped through the windows of the front room. Projectiles splattered against the walls and furniture. My pistol was already in my fist. I hugged the floor, trying to keep as much furniture between me and the front wall as possible. I lifted my head to get a bead on my rifle, but a heavier report sounded outside and a single bullet whizzed by, nicking my cheek. That’s a sniper rifle!

  I tried to bury myself into the floor and grabbed my face. Blood poured from a furrow that had been burned into my flesh. I craned my head to listen. There were at least two shooters—one spraying the house with fully-auto fire and another delivering pinpoint accurate sniper fire. Walter and Malcolm? What about Daniel? Was he involved like Mark suggested?

  I crawled down the long hallway, my hand leaving smudges of blood on the plush carpet. I turned into the first opening I found and landed in what appeared to be a game room. A pool table was at the center of the room and the heads of large game lined the high walls.

  A lamp was on in the corner of the game room and I darted for it, staying low. I reached up with a sticky hand and flipped the switch to off, then paused. I spat on my bloody hand and wiped it partially clean on my jeans. My shirt collar was wet. After I pulled off my vest, I lifted my shirt to dry my face. It was no use. Blood continued to flow freely.

  I realized just then that the shooting at the front of the house had ceased. It could mean the shooters had changed positions or were moving in. I need to get out of here. This is a deathtrap!

  I crawled the rest of the way to the door, threw the deadbolt, eased it open. Warm air rushed in. The night was quiet. I squeezed through the door and made my way to the corner of the house to my right…stopping every few feet to listen for danger. Once I made it to the corner, I quick-peeked around it and could see the street at the front of the house. A narrow patch of grass and a cyclone fence was all that separated Mark’s house from the neighbor’s house. If I could make my way through the neighbor’s backyard, I knew I could get to Susan’s truck.

  I listened for any sound of movement and heard none. I shoved off the house, darted across the patch of grass, and dove over the fence. I landed on my hands, then collapsed my arms into a shoulder roll. Just then, the night erupted in fully automatic gunfire. Grass and dirt sprayed in my face as I rolled. The shooter was somewhere behind the houses to my left. I could tell from the report of the rifle that I was dealing with a third shooter.

  I ran for my life across the backyard, bullets spraying the area around me. The night was as black as the darkest Louisiana coffee ever brewed, and I couldn’t see where I ran. Suddenly, my hip smashed violently into an immovable object and I hurled headlong over what felt like a cement picnic table. I crashed to the ground with a grunt. I scrambled to my knees and sought refuge behind a nearby tree.

  Without looking—and violating everything I’d ever learned about firearms safety—I shoved my pistol around the tree and fired in the direction of the third shooter. Once, twice, three times I fired. It didn’t seem to faze the shooter, as he sprayed the area with three-round bursts in response. Bright flashes of orange lit up the area surrounding the gunman with each shot.

  I slid to a standing position against the tree, careful to keep it firmly between me and the bad end of the gunfire. My hip ached. I gripped my pistol. The shooter had stopped firing, but I knew he was still out there, just waiting for me to make a sound. I figured he couldn’t see me, so as long as I remained silent I should be relatively safe.

  Suddenly, the area around me was flooded in brightness. I jerked my head up, realizing someone had turned on the patio lights. I squinted.

  A large man in tacky pajama pants pushed the sliding door open and stepped outside. He held a shotgun in his hands, staring wildly about. “What the hell is going on out here?”

  “Sir, get inside! There’s a gunman—”

  Another three-round burst exploded behind me and mowed the man down. I darted around the opposite side of the tree and saw a large boat sitting on a trailer at the back of the yard. It was at least twenty-five yards away. Without making a sound, I sprinted for the boat, my pistol leading the way. After I’d taken a dozen steps, I began firing as I ran. The gunman wasn’t expecting it. I moved to my right as I ran, putting the boat between us. He cut loose with another three-round burst, and I saw his exposed head and shoulders in the glow from the patio behind me.

  I dove to a prone position, planting my clenched palms on the wet grass. Bullets kicked up grass in my face, but I steadied my hands and took careful aim. I fired once and the shooting stopped. I scrambled to my feet, rushed to his position, nodded. My bullet had ripped through the bridge of his nose, silencing him forever.

  Something chirped in my pocket, and I moved behind the boat and put the phone to my ear. I surveyed the area. “Hello?”

  “What’s going on?” It was Susan. I heard sirens in the background. “We’re getting reports of gunfire from Mark McNeal’s neighborhood. Tell me it’s not you!”

  “Mark’s dead.” I hunkered down behind the boat and pulled the shooter onto his back, then shone the light from the phone in his face. “And so is Daniel Blackley.”

  “Where are you, exactly?”

  I gave her my position. “There are at least two more shooters out there. I’m betting Malcolm Landry and Walter Moore.”

  “I’ll be there in a second. I’ve got William, Melvin, and Beaver with me. Hang tight and stay on the—”

  The phone exploded in my hand. Shards of plastic peppered the side of my face. It was followed shortly by a deep boom from the sniper rifle that had taken out Mark. My left hand burned. Blood oozed into my left eye. I dropped to my face and scurried to the opposite side of the boat. I lay panting, with my gun gripped in my right hand. I dared not peer around the side of the boat. Sirens blared, drew nearer. I knew Susan would come under attack as soon as she arrived.

  I shoved my pistol into my waistband, dragged Daniel closer, and pulled the AR-15 from his lifeless hands. I removed the thirty-round magazine and weighed it in my hand—half full. While cursing myself for discarding my load-bearing vest, I felt around on Daniel’s belt, until I located a pouch with two more magazines. I snatched them up just as tires screeched in front of the houses.

  I pushed off with my legs, running as fast as they could carry me in the direction of the sniper’s location. I zigzagged as I ran, letting the patio light guide my path. Gunfire erupted from the street and I heard the boom of the sniper rifle. He had moved!

&nbs
p; I ran toward the sound and rounded the corner between two houses, holding the rifle in my right hand, cradling my bloody left hand against my chest. I had almost reached the street when the sniper rifle exploded again and light flashed in front of me. Before I could stop myself, I stepped on something soft that rolled under my feet. I fell forward—the rifle flying from my grasp. I landed on top of the sniper with a grunt.

  The sniper came alive beneath me, twisted around and shoved me to the side. I rolled away and pushed myself to my feet. He was on me in a blink and kicked me right in the gut. The force of the kick sent me reeling into the front yard, where a fierce gun battle was taking place. The sniper lunged toward me and streetlights glinted off steel and his ghostly face. It was Walter Moore and he had a crazy look in his eyes.

  I moved away from him, calling out, “Walter, it’s over! The governor’s dead. You can stop now. You don’t—”

  Walter slashed at me with the long knife. I shoved my arms up in front of my face and felt the sharp blade fillet my left forearm. The burn was intense. Blood poured freely from the gaping wound.

  “I got him,” someone called from my left. It sounded like Melvin. “Malcolm’s down!”

  “The bastard got Beaver,” Susan bellowed.

  Walter cast a concerned glance in their direction, then turned and ran for his rifle.

  “Stop!” I stumbled forward, reaching for my waistband—my pistol was gone!

  Before I could react, a dark figure flashed by me and knocked me sideways. I righted myself just in time to see Walter turn with the rifle in his hand. Before he could pull the trigger, the figure leapt into the air and came down on him with a thunderous punch to his jaw. Walter’s knees buckled and he fell hard to a seated position. Even from behind, there was no mistaking the braided cornrows pulled into twin pigtails behind Susan’s head. She shot a knee to Walter’s chin and he dumped onto his back, where he lay gasping for air. Without hesitation, Susan lifted a boot high into the air and brought it down on Walter’s throat.

  I had seen a lot of violence during the course of my law enforcement career, but the sight of Walter’s throat being crushed startled even me. Susan stared down at him for a long moment, then turned and rushed to me, steadied me in her arms. “Are you okay?”

  My jaw was slack. I stared from her to him, back to her.

  “He had a knife in his hands,” she said casually. “I didn’t have time to draw my gun and shoot him.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Susan watched as the emergency room doctor stitched my arm. They had fixed my hand first, and that took the longest.

  “I’ve had a few of those in my lifetime,” Susan said.

  I grunted. “I’m sure this is a weekly occurrence for you.”

  When the doctor was done, I tested the bandage. Nice and snug. I held up my hand. “Doc, will this heal up?”

  “We dug out most of the shrapnel from the phone, but some of it will have to stay in place because of the proximity to the nerves.” He nodded. “You might set off some metal detectors, but I think you’ll regain full use of your hand.”

  “How’d your debriefing go with Reginald Hoffman?” Susan asked when the doctor had gone.

  “Good. He said he’ll meet with the district attorney and they’ll present the evidence to the grand jury, but he said everything looks good for us.”

  “He told me the same thing.” Susan cocked her head to the side and winced. “He did seem somewhat bothered by the fact I killed Walter Moore with a heel stomp to the throat, so I had to explain to him that when you’re justified in using deadly force, it can come in any form.”

  I shuddered. “I’m still weirded out about that.”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  I frowned. “So, what was Beaver doing with y’all?”

  Susan hung her head, biting her lower lip. “I have to apologize to you. We were wrong about Chloe.”

  “Wrong? What do you mean?”

  “She was doing her job last night—interviewing a source. Beaver called her anonymously and told her he had information on the Hays Cain murder investigation. He knew if he identified himself she would never go for it, so he disguised his voice to sound like some old woman.”

  “Did he have information?”

  “Yeah, he did, but it was false. The mayor convinced him that you had killed Hays Cain and Kelly Dykes. He told Beaver there was strong evidence against you and that the sheriff’s office was fixing to move in on you.” Susan pulled the doctor’s stool next to my bed and plopped onto it. “The mayor needed a narrative to feed to the media, so he played Beaver like a fiddle. He knew Beaver was still in love with Chloe, so he made Beaver believe she was in danger with you.”

  I shook my head, mouth agape. “And she fell for this line of shit?”

  “Not at first, but then Beaver took her to the mayor, and he told her the same thing.” Susan spun a complete circle in the chair, but stopped herself abruptly. “Oh, and Melvin’s bringing Achilles home for you. In fact, they should be there already.”

  I felt my face light up. “How is he?”

  “He looks like you—a little banged up, but handsome as all hell. The vet took good care of him, like I told you she would. She said he’s a tough puppy and he pulled through the surgery as well as any she’s ever seen.”

  “I can’t wait to see him. It seems like weeks since—”

  “Oh, my God! Clint!” I turned to see Chloe standing in the doorway to my hospital room, her hand over her mouth. Tears streamed down her face like a sparkling waterfall. She rushed to my side and threw herself on my chest. “I’m so sorry I doubted you!”

  I caught a glimpse of Susan’s face and, for a brief moment, thought I detected a hint of jealousy. She stood and nodded. “I’ll leave you two to”—she waved her hand over us—“do whatever it is that y’all do.”

  I wrapped my good arm around Chloe and pulled her close. I stared deep into her eyes, unsure how to feel or what to say. “Well, I doubted you, too, so I guess that makes us even, don’t you think?”

  Chloe started to explain, but I pushed my finger to her lips. “It’s okay. Let’s put it behind us.”

  “But I feel like I need to explain.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Chloe frowned, but nodded. She stayed with me until I was discharged and then drove me home. I nearly ran up the steps when we arrived, quickly unlocking the door. Achilles pulled himself to his feet and waited for me to open his crate. I dropped to my knees and grabbed him up in my good arm.

  “Y’all look like twins,” Chloe said, pointing to our matching bandages.

  Achilles’ bowls were filled with fresh water and food.

  “Melvin took care of it,” Chloe said.

  “I wish he’d cleaned my house while he was at it.” I surveyed the damage from the search warrant. Sofa cushions had been sliced to shreds. The stack of mail and paperwork on my table had been strewn about, littering the floor. My vodka bottles had been opened and poured out. “Cops are such assholes!”

  Chloe nodded. “But you’re my asshole.”

  I laughed and led her to the bedroom. It was no different. Everything was a mess. Achilles settled in the corner of the room and went to sleep. I dug around until I found clean sheets and Chloe helped me make my bed. I then glanced toward my bathroom. “I need a shower.”

  Chloe’s eyes twinkled. “Need some help?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  Chloe sauntered over to me, grabbed my hand and led me to the bathroom. Once inside, she pushed the door shut and guided me to the center of the room. She reached under my shirt and placed her cold hands against my stomach, gently slid them upward, lifting my shirt. When her hands reached my chest, she grasped the edge of my shirt and pulled it over my head and tossed it aside. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ears, leaned forward, kissed my chest.

  I moaned and wrapped my hands behind her back. She kissed lower and lower on my chest, then reached for my belt.
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  CHAPTER 53

  Sunday, July 6

  “Why do you have to work today?” I watched as Chloe snapped her bra in place and then shimmied into her jeans.

  “Because I have bills to pay.” She searched the floor for her shirt. “Why do I always lose my clothes over here?”

  I used my left elbow to push myself to a seated position, then I got up and padded across the floor to the bathroom. I caught Chloe’s eyes following me and smiled. When I stepped out of the bathroom, she was dressed.

  She frowned. “It sucks that I have to leave.”

  “I know how it is. You don’t get to pick when a story will happen—just like I don’t get to pick when someone will die.”

  “Thanks for understanding.” She kissed me and hurried out the door.

  I pulled on my boxer briefs and stepped out the back door with Achilles. He moved gingerly around the backyard, as though testing his muscles. When he was done, he limped back into the house, then curled up in the corner of the kitchen. I sat beside him for a long time, scratching his ears and talking to him. Once he fell asleep, I got dressed and surveyed the mess in the kitchen.

  “Well,” I said, “I guess you’re not going to clean yourself.”

  I started to push my papers into a pile on the floor when a knock sounded at the front door. I tossed the papers on the table and strode across the living room to open the door. It was my father-in-law. “Hey, Nick, how’s it going?”

  “I’m good. I just wanted to drop by and see how my favorite son-in-law was doing.”

  “As well as can be expected.” I held up my bandaged arm. “This thing won’t stop itching and it’s driving me crazy. Other than that, everything is perfect. How are you?”

  “That’s good.” Nick walked into the kitchen, bent over and rubbed Achilles between the ears. Achilles barely moved.

  “He’s been taking it easy.”

  Nick nodded, taking in the disarray.