“What’s that?”
“No cowboy shit, no hero complex,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
Without even meaning to, I couldn’t help but smirk. Slamming the hood of the trunk, I motioned with my chin toward her outstretched hand, the array of hardware strapped to her body.
“Yeah, I can see that.”
Chapter Seventy-Seven
HK was the shorthand term for the weapons manufacturer Heckler & Koch, a German defense contractor that had been making weapons dating back to World War II. Smaller, sleeker, than most guns built by their American counterparts, they boasted all of the traditional hallmarks of German engineering while sacrificing nothing in terms of power or precision.
Both good reasons why there was one now gripped in either of Talula Davis’s hands as she made her way through the forest.
But not the biggest one.
That honor was reserved for the fact that to her knowledge, the Baxters had never manufactured a single knockoff HK, the German design much too advanced for their operation, which by extension meant that none of them had ever made it to the reservation.
The very same reason her father had always insisted on carrying one, even when the higher-ups at his job took him to task for it.
Squeezing their grips in her hands, Davis picked her way through the trees, moving as quickly as silence would allow. Raised up onto the balls of her feet, she darted from tree to tree, ignoring the sweat that flowed freely down her body, striping her exposed torso.
Not that she was too overly worried about somebody lying in wait for her, the night vision goggles strapped to the top of her head giving her a clear read on her surroundings, nothing more than a squirrel or the occasional bird dotting the area around her.
A bit older in model, they were bulky and hot as hell, but a necessary evil for sure.
Aside from the weapons, the most important thing to their plan at the moment, allowing her to get into position, to be where she needed to be in time.
Counting the minutes in her head, Davis continued picking her way forward. Increasing her pace to a jog, she hurtled over a felled log, the faintest hint of glow appearing in the distance.
Her heart rate rising with it, she continued pressing forward.
Splitting from Tim was not ideal, something both of them conceded freely, but it was the only way to proceed. Not knowing who might be ahead, how many there could be or the arsenal they could be staring at, they knew there would be no chance of them sneaking up, hoping to pick off a few strays and work their way inward.
Working with precious little data, they had to go fast and they had to go big, hoping the combination of surprise and confusion would be enough to get them what they needed.
Which was why she now found herself piecing her way forward.
Whether any of it was a good idea, was a move either of them should be making, was now long past the point. Both had been pulled into something too large to ignore, had committed to seeing it through to the end.
Now there was only the matter of doing just that, putting their heads down and surging forward, letting things play out as they may.
Ahead of her, the faint light grew steadily larger, the rough outline of a structure coming into view. Reaching up, she dimmed the visual on the goggles just slightly, slowing her pace back to a walk, sweeping her gaze from side to side.
Coming ever closer until the warehouse blazed brightly before her, the view so strong it almost burned her eyes, Davis tucked herself down behind the base of an enormous cottonwood, completely hidden from the world behind her.
Stripping off the goggles, she left them on the ground beside her, gripping the HK’s tight in either hand.
It was time.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
“Get your ass in the air and get to Atlanta!”
There was no further discussion, no waiting for a response of any kind. The conversation had already lasted minutes longer than Deputy Marshal Abby Lipski wanted it to, the directive she was spitting out not that hard to understand.
The victim of the gunshot wound at the hospital was named Lance Murray, and even in his weakened state, he had turned out to be a more formidable opponent than Lipski had expected.
Formidable enough that it wasn’t until she had drawn her weapon and dug the heel of her gun into the thick gauze covering his right breastplate that he had finally cracked, giving up the information she needed.
Doing so had required her locking the door, had taken the combined efforts of Marshals Burrows and Marlucci to fend off a team of medical personnel once the young man started howling in pain, but it had managed to do the job.
Twenty-seven years of age, Murray worked for what he claimed was an auto body shop in Georgia, the place just an hour northwest of Atlanta.
At first mention of the city, Lipski had felt the familiar pangs of tension gathering in her stomach, pushing everything of the last day to an even higher level.
Once he confessed that his employer was one Vic Baxter, it had reached a fevered pitch, sweat dotting her body, oozing from every possible opening it could find.
The total interrogation had taken just fifteen minutes, but by the time it was completed, Lipski felt as if she had been through a rugby match. Hair disheveled, her clothing askew, most of the monitors and lines attached to Murray had been destroyed, the interior of the room resembling a trailer park in the wake of a tornado.
An exhausted and bloodied young man lying at its core.
Stepping out into the hallway, she hadn’t even feigned trying to compose herself, ignoring the distressed shouts of nurses and orderlies as they arrived in her wake.
Like a great many things that had happened in the previous few days, it would likely cost her her job, not that that was looking so terrible at the moment.
Somehow, the thought of being home for Burgerville night with her children sounded much better than what she was currently doing, no matter how much of the country she was getting to see.
Country such as the stretch of Georgia highway they were now on, lights and sirens blazing, the SUV nudging triple digits at every available opportunity.
With the plane up north in Knoxville, the decision to drive had been made by the time she and her team reached the first floor of Monroe County Hospital.
Piling in, she had given Colvin the same address she’d just pried from Murray before getting on the phone and calling the plane, telling them to get to Georgia.
Seated in the front seat, every emotion, every feeling, every everything from the past few days was sealed just beneath the surface, a roiling tempest threatening to be unleashed at any moment.
Things were coming to a head. The scene at the farmhouse confirmed that.
There would be no tomorrow. However this was going to end, it was going to be soon, under the cover of darkness.
Flicking her gaze to the GPS on the front dash, she saw the remaining mileage to their destination, dividing that by the speed they were currently running at.
“Must go faster,” she muttered, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the wail of the sirens. “Must go faster.”
Chapter Seventy-Nine
No matter what Lou said standing behind the car, watching her duck off into the woods was one of the hardest things I’d done in a long time.
Not because – as she put it – I had some sort of hero complex. Definitely not over some form of misplaced misogyny.
Because I couldn’t promise her what laid ahead. I didn’t know if Baxter was armed to the teeth, an army stowed away inside, waiting for our arrival, laughing at how they’d been able to lure me in so easily.
Even after what she’d shared about her father, let it be known that she had far more in common with me than just being an adolescent acquaintance, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being a tiny bit responsible.
I was, after all, the reason Uncle Jep was murdered, the basis for why she was ever brought in at all.
Sure, without
me, she would still be harboring hatred for Baxter, would still be looking for an opening, but it would be just that. She would be going home each night, waiting for something that might never come.
Which was still potentially a far better outcome than what we were now staring at.
Standing and watching her go, the thoughts had swirled through my head, forming a veritable hurricane as I waited the interminable ten minutes for her to get into position. Time and time again, different ideas forced their way to the surface, holding sway for a moment before being pulled back into the mesh, everything writhing, trying to force itself into something that made sense.
Not until just a couple of minutes remained, the final bit of the agreed-to time ticking away, did it fall into place, landing in a form I could ignore no longer.
Just as I had realized three nights earlier, standing in the kitchen of my apartment, hiding from something was no way to live. Hell, it wasn’t really living at all.
It was just sitting around and waiting, looking over a shoulder, trying to ignore the obvious.
I had been doing it in the Witness Protection Program, at least having the benefit of putting Eric Baxter away in the process.
Lou hadn’t been so lucky. She’d buried her father, had been brushed aside, had continued to see the work of the man responsible pop up around her.
For me to try and deny her closure, to try and force her to continue ducking it, would be wrong. No matter how altruistic my intentions, I would be keeping her moving laterally, demanding she stay away from the light.
Hidden.
Once that realization had hit, had flooded through me in a quick wave, I had shoved aside all concerns. All worries about what we were doing, about whatever dangers lay ahead.
Climbing back into the car, I had reversed out of the gravel embankment on the side of the road, slinging loose stone in my wake as I pointed the front toward Baxter’s. Running fast, I covered the distance in no time at all, my adrenaline, my nerves, spiking like the red needles on the dash in front of me.
For more than a minute, I pushed through the darkened world, all light blotted out by the pine trees towering high on either side of the road. With the lights off, I ran strictly by feel, guided by a faint glow in the distance, knowing exactly what it was, what it represented.
The sole sound was the enormous engine beneath me, cubic horsepower hurtling me forward, intent on finishing something six years in the making, a task I should have seen through before it involved anybody else.
Like Lou. And her father.
And Uncle Jep.
Veins jumped along the lengths of my arms as I squeezed the wheel tight, a snarl curling back my lips. On either side, the tree line peeled away, the shape of Baxter’s Auto Body rising before me, a monolith placed in the middle of the forest, a spot where such a monstrosity had no reason to be.
Reaching to the passenger seat, I took up the same duffel I’d been carrying for days, its contents much lighter as I tugged it over onto my lap.
Pushing the gas a little harder, I set the cruise control, pinning the speedometer at fifty miles an hour, my target just a quarter mile out and closing.
Extending one hand over the dash, I reached to the pair of grenades taped to the windshield, sliding the pins free, nothing but adhesive holding their levers down.
Making sure the front hood was aimed just where I wanted it, the front grill poised for the enormous roll top door in the center of the structure, I grasped the door handle. Gripping the duffel in my opposite hand, I jerked it open, hurtling myself out.
Pain rippled up through my arm as my exposed shoulder bit into the dirt and gravel surrounding the shop. Hunching my back, I rolled three complete revolutions, letting my momentum carry me away.
With each one I could feel the biting sting of rock and dirt digging into my skin, eating at the exposed flesh, dust rising in a plume around me.
On the third complete turn, I stopped face down on the ground, the duffel bag pinned beneath me. One hand I used to unzip the top, the other I flung over the crown of my skull.
Staying there, I waited, panting, listening for the telltale sign of my impromptu projectile hitting home.
An instant later, it did just that, the crash loud and angry, the sounds of twisted steel and shattered glass ringing out, buttressed by the tires continuing to chew at the concrete of the shop, the squeal of whatever it was pinned against objecting to it going any further.
A successful first contact, it still wasn’t what I was waiting for, keeping myself stowed in place a moment longer.
Right up until the moment the tape on the front windshield gave way, the explosion setting off a chain reaction of the other grenades strewn across the back seat, the ammunition waiting in the trunk, even the front engine, the entire car going up in a fiery pyre that sent a shower of heat and shrapnel over my body.
A shower that was just barely passed before I was on my feet, ripping the sub-machine gun and the Beretta from the duffel.
I had hidden from the Baxters long enough.
Chapter Eighty
Part One was the car.
Tucked up behind the base of the cottonwood tree, Talula Davis heard the engine the moment it came within range of her. Drawing her feet up beneath her, she braced her back against the wood, using it for balance.
Every nerve in her body drew tight as the sound grew closer, louder, ending in a loud crash just a hundred yards from where she was crouched.
Drawing her wrists up toward her shoulders, she held the barrels of the twin HK’s pointed at the sky, pulling in shallow breaths, waiting for Part Two.
Just fifteen seconds later it arrived in the form of the fiery explosion, a massive wail of twisted metal and shrapnel, bits and pieces of it landing in a wide arc around the warehouse. Smacking against the leaves of the forest around her, Davis could hear them raining down, feel the wave of heat that rolled out a moment later.
Passing over the ground in a quick swell, it raised the temperature as much as twenty degrees, gone as fast as it arrived, leaving fresh sweat and dust on her skin in its wake.
Still leaning back against the tree, she pushed herself to her feet, weapons ready, waiting for Part Three to arrive.
There was a slight delay, almost half a minute in length, long enough that for just an instant Davis worried that something had gone wrong with the first two phases. That Tim hadn’t made it out of the car. That he had, but his fall had injured him.
That he had been maimed by flying debris in the wake of the explosion.
Running the concerns through her head, trying to plan how she would react if any one of them were true, she heard Part Three begin.
In a flash, all previous thoughts bled away, her body springing into action, flinging her forward in a way she had ached for for so long.
Spinning out from the base of the tree, she could see the silhouette of Tim before her, his body a black outline, framed in the massive structure of the warehouse. Cased by light spilling out, by random tendrils of flame, he stood in the center of the roll top door opening into the place.
With his back to her, she could just barely see the submachine gun in his hands, the orange flickers of bullets it was spitting out.
Laying down a heavy layer of suppression fire, Part Three was simply for him to make enough noise to get her close.
From there, they would see how things went, adjust on the fly.
Trying to plan any more than that would have been futile, a venture both understood would likely only trip them up. They were a small team with limited arms. Surprise and speed were their allies.
They lost that the moment they allowed themselves to get bogged down with too many moving parts.
Abandoning the trees, Davis veered out onto the road, the hard pavement beneath her feet giving her solid footing, allowing her to fling herself forward. Both arms formed into ninety-degree angles, she pounded as fast as she could, sweat flying with each stride, her breath tight in her chest.
There were only so many bullets in the magazine of a Bizon.
She had to get there by the time he was out of ammunition.
Little by little, she closed the gap between them, watching as Tim continued firing on the structure. One after another he sprayed the front of the place, twisting his hips to either side.
The clip lasted until just ten yards separated them, Tim continuing his side-to-side passes, the sound of the bullets passing, the sight of the orange blossoms of light falling away.
In their stead, the world fell silent for a moment, Davis hearing only her own breathing, the slap of her boots against the pavement as she came forward.
Shifting her focus to the building, she watched as fingers of flame continued licking upward, uneven seams of orange and yellow fighting for supremacy.
Watched further still as a shadow emerged along the right edge of the opening, an arm extended, the outline of a weapon visible.
Pointed directly at Tim, it came just a few steps forward, no more than half a body becoming visible before Davis held both the HK’s at shoulder height. Shooting in tandem, she peppered the area, bullets smashing into the side of the building, sparks of light flashing.
As fast as the arm had appeared, it was gone again, retracted back inside.
Releasing just a few more bullets to be sure, Davis pulled up beside Tim.
Tugging his Beretta from the small of his back, he dropped the Bizon to the ground beside him, glancing over at her.
“Nice of you to join us.”
Offering no response to the crack at all, she said simply, “You’re welcome.”
Chapter Eighty-One
Radney Creel could smell his own flesh cooking. Resembling the scent of charred pork, it was coming from his left side, the cause of it a three-inch chunk of twisted steel protruding from his bicep.
The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic Page 28