The Deepest Wound

by Rick Reed

  “The hell you are!” Jack said. “These guys aren’t that lucky. Someone’s feeding them information. Telling them every move we make. If they weren’t after me, how did they know Moira was with me? How in the hell did they get my address?”

  He wasn’t listed in the phone book, and no address or sign was posted at the end of his gravel lane. Liddell’s house hadn’t been listed either. But these guys had found them both.

  “So what’s the plan?” Brooke asked. “There are a dozen state, county, and city police units out here now. These guys are halfway across the state.”

  Jack was tired, and Moira was completely wrung out. “When they’ve been caught, we’ll go to the hospital,” he said. He knew he was in no shape to protect Moira, and he sure as hell didn’t trust anyone else. Including Brooke.

  “Cinderella,” Moira mumbled.

  “She can take care of herself,” he assured her, but he knew the dog was dead. He heard the gunshot that had killed her. He felt a lump in his throat. Damn dog . . . saved our lives.

  Brooke reached for the radio mic. “Who’s Cinderella?”

  “Cinderella is my dog,” Jack said. “She went after the guys when we ran out the back of the cabin.”

  “You named a dog Cinderella?”

  “I didn’t name the dog,” Jack said.

  Moira was sobbing. Through her tears she said, “She was so brave. We wouldn’t have made it if—”

  “I’ll tell the troops to keep an eye out for Cinderella,” Brooke said, and picked up the radio mic to call dispatch, but Jack stopped her.

  “Tell dispatch that we’re okay,” Jack said. “Give them the location where you picked us up and tell them these guys are heavily armed. At least one of them has a machine gun. They may be doubling back to the river, back toward my cabin. They’re driving an old yellow pickup. It’s probably torn up in the front. Do not tell them where we’re at—or where we’re going.”

  “What? Do you think they have a police radio?” Brooke asked.

  “Just do it,” Jack said, and Brooke relayed what Jack told her to say and added a description of the pooch given by Moira. She clipped the mic back into its holder. “Okay?”

  Jack nodded and leaned against the door. He couldn’t afford to rest, but his body wasn’t listening to him. Strangely enough, he thought about Katie. And then he thought about how she would kill him when she found out he’d let Moira get hurt.

  “By the way, where are we going?” Brooke asked.

  “Just keep driving,” Jack said.

  Brooke headed onto Interstate 164 heading east. The road was elevated above river bottomland that was bare, flat, and dark, except for yellow sodium vapor lights along the highway.

  Both Jack and Moira were a bloody mess. She didn’t know how much of the blood on Jack was Moira’s or his own. “I need to take you both to a hospital.”

  “Just keep driving,” Jack said.

  “Yes, sir. Are we going all the way to Chicago? Or can I make a suggestion?”

  “No hospitals.”

  “We can use my place.”

  “I don’t think a hotel will work,” he said. Probably Eric and Trent both knew where she was staying, and it would be the first place the killers would look when they realized that they hadn’t gone to police headquarters. He hated to admit it, but the reason he wasn’t going to headquarters was because that would mean they got away. He didn’t want it to be over like that. He wanted a chance to thank the killers properly.

  Brooke braked sharply and turned east onto Boonville New Harmony Road.

  “I grew up around here. My dad left his lake cabin to me,” she said. She turned onto a narrow road, then a quick right onto a dirt track that wound around the edge of a small lake lined with pine trees. She stopped the car alongside a squat cabin. It was badly in need of paint, but looked solid. Although it overlooked a lake and not a river, it reminded him of his own place.

  “I’m not much of a housekeeper, so don’t complain. It’s got power and running water.”

  Jack discovered Moira was fast asleep. “We’re here, Moira,” he said.

  Brooke unlocked the cabin, and as they entered, Jack was impressed. From the outside it appeared to be like any basic fishing cabin, squat, flat-roofed, weather-faded, and unpainted. Overhanging shingles acted as a gutter. The windows were covered with heavy wooden shutters. The door was solid wood. A newer wooden outhouse was visible behind the cabin.

  But inside, it was as nice and comfortable as any hotel room with a sofa, two leather recliners, liquor cabinet, fireplace, and a big-screen television. He spied a fully equipped kitchen off to the left. And to the right was a door that probably entered the bedroom. A closed door was in the back of the kitchen.

  “Is that the back door?” he asked Brooke.

  She saw where he was looking. “No. It would have led to a bathroom. My dad had got as far as framing and hanging the door when he passed away. The door is nailed shut from the outside. I’ve never had a chance to finish the cabin.”

  Jack nodded. It was a six-panel inside door, made of pine, but it wasn’t as thick as the front door. It may be nailed shut, but it was the weakest point in the rear. He could force it if he had to. So could the killers.

  Moira sat down on the sofa while Jack checked out the cabin. She leaned back with her eyes closed, both hands in her lap. When Brooke switched on the front room lights, Moira’s wound didn’t look as bad as he had thought. Her front was covered with blood, but she didn’t exhibit any signs of shock. He just wanted to make sure she didn’t go to sleep.

  “I’ll get the first aid kit,” Brooke offered. Jack nodded and she went back outside. Every police car was equipped with a basic first aid kit.

  He woke Moira and helped her into the kitchen. He pulled up a chair for her near the sink, turned on the water, and heard a pump come on under the sink. He twisted the hot tap all the way open and looked around for clean towels. He found several dishtowels under the sink and put one under the water. It was still cold.

  “No hot water,” Brooke said, coming back in with the kit. “On my to-do list.”

  “Can I have a drink?” Moira asked.

  “The water’s okay,” Brooke said. “Just tastes like iron. It’s from a well.” She opened a cabinet that revealed a couple of red plastic picnic cups. She filled one and handed it to Moira, who drank thirstily and asked for another.

  Jack tried to hand the wetted dishtowel to Brooke, who declined, saying, “What makes you think I know how to clean a wound? Just because I’m a woman?”

  Moira grinned slightly, and her hand went back to her face. “Brooke, could you please? Thank you, Jack.”

  Brooke relented and ran the water and dabbed Moira’s face, washing the blood away.

  Jack went to the front and opened a window, then the shutter, and had a view of the lake and the dirt drive approaching them. He looked back toward the kitchen and made eye contact with Brooke.

  “It’s not too bad,” Brooke said. “You’ll need this examined, but maybe there won’t be a scar.”

  “I hope not,” Moira said.

  Brooke expertly applied a bandage over the laceration and taped it in place. “There. That will hold for a short while.”

  “I think I’ll lay down for a minute,” Moira said, and Brooke led her to the bedroom and pulled the door shut. She walked over and stood beside Jack, looking out the window.

  “Were you hit?” she asked.

  Jack looked down and noticed blood dripping from his hand onto the hardwood floor. He lifted his sleeve and saw a hole on both sides of his bicep.

  “Come in the kitchen and we’ll get you patched up, too.” Brooke pulled him away from the window to the chair by the sink.

  She gently turned the arm and examined his injury before saying, “It’s a through and through wound. You’re lucky.”

  “Yeah. Lucky,” Jack said in a sarcastic tone.

  “So . . . do you want me to bandage it, or do you want to just act
tough?”

  “Will I still be able to play the piano?”

  She smirked and wet a towel. “Tell you what. I’ll use a dirty towel. How about that?”

  He held his arm over the sink while Brooke, none too gently, washed the blood off and then poured something over the wound that burned like hell and made him grimace.

  “It’s not whiskey,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “I’d prefer Scotch,” he said through clenched teeth. “But thanks.”

  She examined his arm and wrapped a clean gauze bandage very tightly around it, tucking in the end.

  He admired her work. “You’ve done this before.”

  She propped her left leg up on a chair and pulled the pant leg almost to her knee. He could see a perfectly round scar on the side of her calf. It looked old.

  “I was eight years old. Fishing with my dad right out there.” She nodded toward the lake. “Some hunters didn’t know our cabin was back here.”

  Jack whistled appreciatively. “Eight years old. And you dressed it yourself?”

  “Are you crazy!” she said. “My dad took me to the hospital.”

  He unbuttoned his shirt, opened it, and revealed the thick white scar that ran from below his right ear, across his chest, ending just above his left nipple. “I got that in a knife fight with the nurse when I was born.”

  Brooke raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  “She won, but my mom killed her.” He buttoned his shirt.

  “No, you got that from Bobby Solazzo. I heard about that,” Brooke said. “And you killed him.” Her expression turned serious.

  “Damn right,” he said, and then asked, “You got coffee?”

  Brooke took a jar and a mug from the cabinet behind her and made cold instant coffee. She handed it to Jack, and he stared into the black liquid and handed it back. “Never mind.”

  “I heard your ex got engaged to Eric Manson.”

  “She did.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  Jack didn’t answer. He walked back to the front room window to watch the road.

  She followed him and pulled a cigarette pack from her pocket. “What are we doing here, Jack?”

  “They’ll be coming.”

  She would have asked who would be coming, but she had known what his plan was from the beginning.

  “They were firing a fully automatic weapon at us. Do you keep any ammunition here? Or maybe a spare fifty-caliber machine gun in the closet?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a fishing cabin. I’ve got two extra clips, thirteen rounds each, and thirteen in my Glock. That makes thirty-nine.”

  “I’ve got the same as you, plus five rounds in the shotgun,” Jack said. They both knew it wouldn’t be enough to hold off an assault. If we call for backup, it will bring the killers here faster, or they will turn tail and disappear—maybe come at us some other time.

  “I saw cords of wood stacked on the side of the cabin. We could bring it in here and put them against the wall for a barrier,” Jack said.

  “I’ll help you carry it in.”

  Now that he had time to think, the plan to play bait sucked. “You don’t have to do this, Brooke. Give this address on the radio and then you can take Moira to the hospital. Just don’t call for help. Give me your extra clips.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  “You know it’s the right thing to do, Brooke.” She was a stubborn woman. She reminded him of himself. But he was better looking.

  “Okay, how about this? We lay the wood along the bedroom wall. You stay in there and protect Moira.”

  “And you take these guys on all by yourself?” she asked. “You’re incredible, you know that.”

  “If it looks like I’m losing, you call for backup,” he said. “Give me one of your clips.”

  Outside, Brooke spotted headlights peeking through the trees two hundred yards out. Her cabin was the only one on this road. So Jack was right all along.

  “Too late,” she said, drawing her .45.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  Brooke felt chills run the entire length of her body. She squeezed the checkered grip of her .45 to keep her hands from shaking. She closed her eyes firmly to stop the waking nightmare from coming and robbing her of her faculties when she needed all her focus. But the nightmare came . . .

  She stood at the bottom of the parking garage ramp, both hands on her pistol, pointed into the darkness at the top of the ramp. “Police. Put your hands up. Come down the ramp with your hands up over your head or I’ll shoot you!” she yelled at the shape in the black leather biker’s jacket.

  The jacket moves deeper into the darkness. She can make out a flash of something pale against the black. A hand? It’s reaching beneath the jacket.

  “POLICE!” she yells in a commanding voice. “Come out where I can see you . . . NOW!”

  The paleness slips beneath and comes out with something shiny . . .

  “Drop the gun!” she screams, and drops into a shooter’s stance. She aims to the right of the shiny thing she sees. It seems to be floating in the darkness. Her training has taught her most gunmen are right handed.

  Her mind registers a flash, and then a second flash, and she returns the fire. Two center mass, then aim for the head, go for the kill shot. Put the threat down.

  The target in black falls straight down. In a heap. Not thrown backward like in the movies. Just straight down, in a heap, and doesn’t move.

  She crosses the distance—carefully—muzzle of her pistol pointing at the threat. Verifying the kill. And sees the body of a small girl in a huge black biker’s jacket. She isn’t more than thirteen or fourteen. A silver cell phone is near the dead hand. The dead eyes stare into hers. Her throat threatens to close. She can’t breathe.

  “They’re here,” Jack said.

  Brooke opened her eyes and stared at the gun in her hand like it was a disgusting object. As she leaned against the wall, he realized Brooke was barely holding it together. He pulled the window shutters together, leaving a few inches of space, and turned back to Brooke. He’d heard about the shooting she was involved in from some of his state trooper friends. She had shot and killed a teenage girl. She was cleared by the state shooting board, but the kid’s family had made her life a living hell. He could sympathize with how she was feeling, but he needed her back here. Back in the present. Ready to kill these bastards. They sure as hell weren’t worried about killing him and Brooke and Moira.

  “Ever shoot anyone?” he asked. He knew the answer, of course, but he wanted to get her mad. “I said, have you ever shot a man before, Brooke?”

  Her head jerked up. “Why?” she asked angrily. “What have you heard?”

  “I’ve heard you’re good with that thing. I hope that’s right because here they come.”

  The window exploded, and glass and wood splinters showered them like a swarm of angry hornets. He pulled Brooke to the floor.

  “Are you hit?” he yelled. The sound of machine-gun fire was deafening. “Brooke, are you hit?”

  She lay on the floor, pistol shoved out in a two-handed grip. Tears streamed down her face, and her hands shook.

  “You asked if I ever shot someone,” she said. “The answer is yes. I killed a young girl.” The expression on her face changed to one Jack knew well. Fight or flight. And this was fight.

  Another hail of bullets slammed into the walls behind them.

  Through clenched teeth she said, “I’ll be damned if they get Moira.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  The boss had given Clint an exact location, down to the dirt track he had just turned left on. Through the trees he spotted the moon’s reflection on the lake, and on the other side was the cabin. They were several hundred yards away. He slowed down and pulled off into the grass.

  “If the boss knows about this place, why aren’t there cops all over the place?” Clint wondered out loud.

  “Only one possible reason I can think of.”


  “Does it have something to do with the female cop we ain’t supposed to kill?”

  Book nodded. “That’d be my guess. We’ll circle around the lake. Come at the cabin from both sides. The boss said there ain’t a back door, so they have to come right to us.”

  “It’ll be a turkey shoot,” Clint agreed.

  Book got out and checked his equipment, adjusted his body armor back in place, and released the slide forward to seat a live round.

  “Murphy wants a showdown,” Book said. “That’s why there’s no cops around here.” He paused, thinking, then said, “Except for those two inside there.”

  Clint leaned heavily on the steering wheel, holding his ribs while he got out of the truck. “How are we gonna get out of here? The cops must have a description of our wheels, man.”

  Book nodded toward the cabin. “They got wheels. They won’t be needing them in a few minutes.”

  But Clint knew it was over. The boss’s last instructions were to finish the job, then drive west to St. Louis, where she had already purchased airline tickets for them. She said the police had their names and their military records, so they were to pick up new passports, driver’s licenses, and some money from a guy in the parking garage at the airport. She had already purchased round-trip tickets for them to Croatia, and a connection with the airlines had backdated the tickets, so they wouldn’t raise suspicion.

  He knew there wouldn’t be any passports or money waiting for them. There would be a team waiting to kill them.

  “You know there won’t be any new identities or passports,” he said to Book.

  “To hell with the boss, and the client she rode in on,” Book said. “And “I ain’t letting the female cop live. We kill them all.”

  They stayed in the tree line along the lake, and when they got near the cabin they split up. Book came in from the left, Clint from the right. They took up positions close to the front of the cabin.

  Book stepped out of cover holding the MP5 by his side, one-handed, and held the trigger down. The submachine gun sprayed the front of the cabin from left to right, and back. The MP5 was a seriously badass piece of weaponry, capable of laying down eight hundred rounds per minute, with an effective range of over six hundred feet. And Book was a hell of a lot closer than that.