Shockwave

by Norm Applegate

  Redell slipped his phone back into his pocket. Major Ore was watching him.

  "It's done," Redell said. "We lit the place up."

  Major Ore wasn't smiling.

  "Something wrong?" Redell asked. "You don't have a stomach for this?"

  Ore shrugged.

  "Where do we ditch them?" Ore asked.

  Redell glanced at their two prisoners. Then looked at Ore. Redell knew the area.

  "Is that all that's bothering you?" he asked.

  Ore hesitated.

  "In Afghanistan, you and I survived because we were smart, risk takers. But we knew what we were doing," Major Ore said. "I don't like what we did back there."

  Redell tapped the driver on the right shoulder with the gun barrel. The driver responded, a look of fear across his face. Terrified. A sweaty clammy look to his skin. He was gripping the wheel tight. It was like his fingers were frozen to the wheel. Afraid to speak, afraid to look behind and see how his partner was doing.

  "Take that exit, next one coming up," Redell said.

  The driver nodded numerous times. Nervous movements. Worried about the exit.

  "You see son," Redell said to the major, "Victory comes to those who are willing to take it to the mat. They were soldiers following orders back there. Their time had come. We're all going to die. We might have accelerated it a bit. But the outcome is the same."

  Major Ore sat quietly.

  "We're almost finished," Redell said. "Then paradise is ours. Look, we played this game our whole life and what do we have to show for it? Nothing. Shit, how many times did we risk our ass for someone else's orders? Now this is our game, we're in charge. You'll feel a whole lot better in a day or two."

  Ore nodded. He was looking at the exit approaching.

  Redell turned and moved to the driver. Bent down to scan the bridge ahead of them. Clear, no cops. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  The driver eased off the gas.

  "Turn that blasted siren off," Redell yelled. "And drive smart, no bullshit moves or I'll shoot you. Got it?"

  The driver reacted, quickly thumbing the switch. The ambulance went quiet. The driver believed him. Redell's eyes were mean and he held the pistol steady. Then the ambulance slowed and pulled off the highway. Seventy yards ahead, they stopped.

  "Turn right," Redell ordered.

  The driver looked left then right. The road was empty, hopeless. Redell pointed to a cleared lot. A gravel strip on the left. There were a couple of cars parked in a row.

  "Pull over there," Redell said.

  The driver maneuvered the ambulance into a spot beside a sedan. Nobody was around.

  "Turn it off," Redell said. "Toss me the keys."

  The driver put it in park and turned the ignition to the left. It knocked a couple of times then the engine shut down. It was quiet; they were alone. The driver turned around and pitched an underhand to Redell. He caught the keys and slipped them into his pocket. Redell looked out the windows on both sides of the van then opened the side door and got out. He looked up and down the road, left to right. Stretched and twisted his back, kind of shook his arms. He took in a deep breath, looked up at the sky and turned toward the ambulance, poked his head inside. Saw the driver staring at his friend. Studied him for a beat.

  The driver was looking for his partner. Saw him on his back strapped down on a cot. Couldn't take his eyes off him. Staring to make sure he was alive.

  There was a humming sound and it was getting louder. It broke the silence. Redell heard it first. Then Major Ore. Redell turned sharply. He saw the police car drive into the clearing. It was slowing down. He saw one cop, the driver. He was looking at Redell.

  "Cops," Redell yelled to Ore.

  Ore stared for second. Then looked out the back window. Pulled out his gun.

  The car came to a stop. It was in the middle of the road. Sitting, idling, and not moving. Nobody was moving. Everyone was waiting. It lurched forward and turned left into the gravel strip. Pulling into a spot on the other side of the sedan.

  The door swung open and the cop got out. His gun still in its holster.

  "What's he doing?" Ore whispered.

  Redell turned to face him. He was still wearing the black SWAT uniform. His distance was fifteen feet. It was probably a cop on a routine drive. If he had known about the ambulance he would have his gun pulled. Would have backup. Wouldn't be walking toward them.

  "What are you doing?" Ore whispered to Redell.

  He didn't reply.

  Beau Redell focused his eyes on a spot in the middle of the cop’s forehead. He planted his feet. Shifted his weight so he was balanced. Smiled at the cop. The cop smiled back and nodded his head. Redell was holding something behind his leg, kind of hidden. The cop's brow wrinkled. He was looking down toward Redell's right arm. He kept walking toward him. Redell saw his expression and raised his Glock up to shoulder height and extended his arm. He moved fast, steady. His finger was tight against the trigger.

  The police officer stopped. He was staring at the gun pointed at him. He moved his left arm. Raising his hand toward his holster. The expression on his face changed to shock. His mouth was slightly open.

  Redell didn't hesitate; he squeezed and fired. The cop was close enough; Redell knew he wouldn't miss. The gun made a popping sound as he shot the first round. It hit the cop in the forehead. Instantly his brain exploded out the back of his head. He dropped, went down like a rag doll. Redell heard the bullet hit the trees behind them. He brought the gun down to his side. Looked up and down the road again. It was clear.

  Major Ore burst out the back of the ambulance. Walked slowly to the cop. There was an ugly purple dot on the guy's forehead. The skin was raised around it. Kind of red. Under his head the blood was pooling. A puddle of red staining the gravel.

  Redell was standing behind Ore. He fired another round into the cop’s chest. The body shook.

  "We need to finish the other two," Redell said.

  Ore didn't say anything.

  He turned and headed back to the ambulance.

  Major Ore didn't like what was happening. Felt like they had lost control. Loose ends like two ambulance drivers, and now a cop dead, were the type of things where mistakes are made. Just seemed amateurish, killing a cop. They might have been able to talk their way through it. Maybe tie him up in the ambulance.

  Redell opened the back doors to the ambulance. The paramedic in the back had his mouth open, mumbling something. Tears were running down his face. He was young. Twenty something, lying on the stretcher. Pale, shaking, terrified. Redell was holding the pistol by his waist. Down around his right side. He started at him. He was tapping his other hand against his leg. Then raised the gun. Fired off a shot. Hit the guy in the face. He was six, eight feet away. Nailed his eye socket. Looked like the guy's eye disappeared, just a bloody hole. The guy's head moved up and to the left. Blood sprayed out the back of his skull. Splatter lined the inside of the van. Looked like red paint. Really stood out against the white covered walls. The guy bled out on the stretcher covering the linen red.

  It was quiet in the van except for the driver making whimpering noises. Sniffling like he was crying. He was sitting in the drivers seat. He had turned around. Holding the steering wheel. Staring through the windshield, straight ahead. Looking out into the forest. Redell could see the guy from the shoulders up. Saw him shaking. He was looking at the back of his head. Thought he heard the guy praying, saying something about God.

  Redell pumped a round into the guy. Cracked his cranium wide open. Saw his hair lift up when the bullet hit him. Almost instantly he saw the windshield turn red. He'd blown a hole in the guy's face.

  He closed the back doors. Went around the side and slid that door closed.

  Major Ore was still standing by the cop. Watching Redell execute the guys. He felt different toward Redell. Distant. Cold. Not sick because he knew it had to be done, but disappointed in himself. He'd had a good career in the military. Lived all over the world.
Was paid for his security services in half a dozen countries. Now he was a wanted man. Wanted for murder. They had one more person to see. It was a person who trusted him. Then it would be over. It was all about money. Like it always is.

  Chapter 44

  Agent Miller and Jack Dwyer scanned the side road to their left. Behind them a farm, devastated. Ahead trouble. There was no traffic below. Just green fields, peaceful, rolling hills and families doing what families do, being together. Working their spread. The interstate was approaching. They could see it stretching north to Gainesville and south to Tampa. To their right, the truck stop.

  Dwyer felt awkward leaving Kelly Paul behind. They had been through so much together, had bonded. He liked her. He was sure she liked him. Wondered how she was holding up by herself. He expected the cops would take good care of her. This whole thing was about her. What bothered Dwyer, was Major Ore. He didn't know him, but being a part of the Minister's inner circle then turning on him was cold. Then Ore and Redell killing their own men and for what? They had destroyed a family, lots of families. Killed many people.

  Dwyer looked for his car. It was gone. He could see police trailers. Uniformed men and women. It was the negotiating team. Lights were flashing. He could imagine the noise. To anyone down there it must have been chaotic. When things are out of control people are at their worst. Any resemblance of an organized stakeout had vanished. That would mean cops yelling. Frantic, not following procedures, just trying to save one another.

  Miller twisted to his left. Had something in his hand. He was passing it back to Dwyer. It had been awhile since he wore a headset. Reminded him of the military. He slipped it on. Snapped the mouthpiece to the front. Adjusted it so it fit snug.

  "You hear me okay?" Miller asked.

  Dwyer nodded. Gave him thumbs up. "Yeah, I'm good."

  "The ambulance had a few minutes on us," Miller said. "They can't outrun us."

  Dwyer was thinking seven minutes, maybe ten minutes ahead. Traveling at forty to fifty miles per hour on the side road. Then accelerating to eighty or ninety on the highway. He gave them an average speed of sixty to seventy. He calculated six to seven miles from the farm. That would put them on the interstate. A couple of miles south of the truck stop if they went south. Too far to Gainesville if they went north. They would only go north if they had another hideout. Dwyer thought about that. Eliminated it from the possibilities. That was too well planned out. He didn't believe they would be playing the game that well.

  Agent Miller tapped the pilot on the arm and pointed south. The pilot banked the chopper to the left. Nose down, blades spinning, they were moving fast. Miller was thinking the same thing; they must have gone south.

  They crossed the interstate. Moved to the west side of it. Maybe five thousand feet up. It was a clear day. Blue sky, the sun was to their right. Not in their eyes. Gave them a good view of the highway. They could see a couple of miles. It was a straight road. Not a lot of traffic. Mostly trucks. No ambulance.

  "I'm not seeing them," Miller said.

  He was leaning forward in his seat. Propped up by his left arm. Kind of twisted to his left, studying the road.

  "We should be on top of them in a minute, maybe two," Dwyer said.

  Miller shot him a quick glance and nodded.

  "Got the sheriff's guys heading north," Miller said. "Looking for the ambulance. It'll be hard for them to get past us."

  Dwyer disagreed. If it was him, he'd get off the highway as soon as he could. Change cars; maybe have one stashed. Maybe rob someone. Definitely wouldn't be driving out in the open, not in an ambulance.

  Dwyer tapped the mic on the headset.

  "Could they have gotten off somewhere," he asked. "Changed vehicles?"

  Miller spun around and stared at him. Looked behind him. North along the highway where they had just come. Worried, tense, his faced showed the frustration.

  He stared at Dwyer.

  "Possible," he responded. "We'll go a few more miles. Five or ten minutes."

  Dwyer stared at him. Didn't say anything. He'd been looking ahead down the highway. He could see a few miles and there was no sign of them. He knew they hadn’t missed them. They would be easy to spot. Now he was convinced more then ever. Redell and Ore had a plan. Everything that had happened wasn't by chance. The odds of things working in your favor are slim at best. Dwyer knew that. He fought in wars. When the shooting starts it's all about survival, not about following a plan. But Redell had a uniform. That was planned. He'd had time too change. Had time to meet up with Major Ore. They knew there would be paramedics. They knew if they set off bombs there would be panic. They knew nobody would question two guys, one dressed as a cop, going into an ambulance. They were counting on that and it had worked.

  "We've missed them," Dwyer said. "They turned off somewhere. We need to circle back."

  Miller looked at him. Got on the radio. Wanted everyone to report in.

  Miller looked at his watch. He knew Dwyer was right. They had been gone twelve minutes. They should have caught them. But nothing. No sign of them. Nothing being reported.

  Ahead flashing lights. Approaching them police cars racing north. They had closed the gap and missed them.

  Miller gave the pilot a circular motion with his hand signaling to turn around.

  The helicopter pitched left. They crossed the interstate. Miller and Dwyer were looking at the cars heading south.

  "If they got off the highway," Miller said. "They could go east or west. We passed three bridges. Three areas we have to check on both sides of the highway."

  Dwyer was thinking. If it was him, he would have a car stashed. Somewhere close to the highway. Close enough he could switch vehicles quickly and get back on the highway. There wouldn't be time to hide the ambulance. It would be stupid to set it on fire. Draw attention to themselves, not the smart thing to do.

  "Some of these pass-overs have a car park," Dwyer said. "For commuters. You know, leave your car there and pick it up after work."

  Miller had his back to Dwyer; he was focused, thinking about what Dwyer said.

  "You look to the left," Miller said to Dwyer. "I'll cover the right. Look for a place where they could have hidden the ambulance. Somewhere they could have switched cars."

  Dwyer moved to his left, closer to the window. Braced his hands on the pilot's seat to steady himself. The first overpass was approaching. He saw trees. Open fields, cow pastures. No place to ditch a vehicle.

  Miller signaled the pilot to head north. It was two miles to the next overpass. They covered it in about a minute.

  Dwyer had his face against the glass. Same thing, farmland everywhere. Clear, no ambulance. He lined his eyes up on the bridge. Scanned the road moving west away from the highway. The road took a dip. Trees lined each side, heavy overgrowth. He followed it for about a hundred feet. No traffic. A flash of light was the first thing that caught his eye. A reflection, sunlight bouncing off metal. It disappeared. He focused on that spot. Waited. Then again. Looked like a mirror.

  "Down there to the left," he yelled. "Follow the road."

  The pilot swung the bird around hard. Banking, turning, they bounced sideways. They held on hard. It was a tight arch. They were just north of the road, almost above it. They slowed down. Started hovering. They were looking below at five vehicles, an unmarked and the ambulance.

  "Got them," Miller yelled. "Put us down."

  The pilot hesitated for a beat looking for a clearing in the field. Miller and Dwyer twisted in their seats as they went past it. Looking, studying, hoping to catch them. They floated over the ambulance and touched down about fifty feet to the right of it. They bounced, hit kind of hard. Skidded forward about ten feet. The wheels sunk into the grass. The chopper relaxed and settled into the field. The blades slowed. The vibrating stopped. The motor was idling. Miller held his gun in his right hand. He was checking his ammo. Dwyer reached forward over the seat and tapped Agent Miller on the shoulder.

  "I need a gun!"<
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  Chapter 45

  Miller and Dwyer ran from the helicopter. It was a dust bowl, a cloud of dry straw and dirt circulating around them. Dwyer could smell the sweetness of the grass. They burst into the sunlight, a dead cop was the first horror they saw. Miller held his gun tight in his right hand. Dwyer had his knife. He was holding it with the blade hidden behind his forearm. The cop was lying on his back. His gun still in its holster. His forehead looked dented. As if hit by a hammer. He had an ugly red dot in the center. His skin was swollen around the bullet hole. It was small, maybe a quarter inch round. The slug entered the front of his forehead and blasted out the back. His head lay in a dark liquid. His eyes were open.

  Miller was standing over him. Thinking about his own men. The ones killed at the farm.

  Dwyer saw the ambulance driver slumped over the steering wheel. He walked to the passenger window. Now he had the knife in a hammer grip in case he had to use it. He peered through the glass. The windshield was sprayed red. He moved around to the front. The windshield was shattered. Had a hole in it.

  The driver’s door was unlocked. Dwyer opened it and looked at the driver. His arms were hanging at his side. His head was resting on the steering wheel. The bullet had smashed through his skull. It had bored through his brain like jello, blending everything into mush. It deflected when it came out his face. Smashed through the bridge of his nose leaving a large hole where his eye was. Shattered the bone and sent the bullet on another angle. It penetrated the windshield and went through it, landing somewhere out in the field.

  Dwyer was listening. But there was nothing, silence.

  Miller walked to the back and opened the door of the ambulance. Saw a paramedic lying on his back. Major face wound, lots of blood. Face wounds bleed like that, very heavy. Lots of liquid circulating in the head. His face was wet. Mostly blood. Miller couldn't tell where he was hit. Just knew it was in the face.