by James Hunt
“I do wish the whole place would have just collapsed onto the bodies,” Owen said, longingly. “But I suppose I could still finish the job.”
“You’re not getting the drive until I have both Rick and my partner,” Grant said.
Callahan stepped back, retreating until he made it all the way to where Rick was restrained. He pointed the pistol at Rick’s head. “I think not.”
“I made copies,” Grant said. “You kill either of them, and you’ll never find them.” He fished the drive out of his pocket. “There is a folder on here that lists the number of times it’s been copied, so you’ll know how many you’ll need returned to you.”
“Copies?” Callahan asked. “You’ve grown too big for your britches, Detective.” He tapped the barrel of his pistol against his chest. “I’m the one holding all of the cards here. I have your partner, and your partner’s husband. Who—” he turned to look back at Rick, “—has looked better.”
“No hostages, no drive,” Grant said.
“Delaying the inevitable,” Callahan said. “Someone took a page out of the class that I taught.” He smiled, shaking his head and pleasantly delighted with himself. The old man removed the pistol from Rick’s head and then holstered the weapon. “All right, Detective. If you want to play quid pro quo, then we’ll do it your way.” He stuck out his hand. “Drive, please.”
Grant hesitated, but then tossed it to Callahan, who snagged it from the air. There was a trash can to his right and he dumped it inside.
“Now you let Rick go, and give me Mocks,” Grant said. “Once they’re both safe and long gone from here, I’ll tell you where the other copies are located.”
Callahan folded his hands in front of his body and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Do you know what I really wanted, Detective? It wasn’t the drive. It was you. You don’t think I don’t know that Hickem is still alive? You don’t think I don’t know that Pierfoy will fold and spill everything he knows about me to the authorities? My days here in the States are over. There’s no changing that.”
Grant’s heart beat faster as Callahan opened his left hand and exposed Mocks’s lighter. He reached inside the trash can and removed a piece of paper.
“What I wanted most of all was to come full circle,” Callahan said. “I started my criminal life here, and this is where I want it to end. And seeing as how you have been the only detective to have ever bested me, I thought it appropriate to have you burn as well.” He flicked the lighter and the paper caught fire. He dropped it into the trash can and the orange flames danced. “Goodbye, Detective.”
Callahan knocked the trash can over, and the flames inside caught quickly as the old man dashed for the door. Grant sprinted toward Rick, who was only a few feet from the flames.
The fire travelled in thin lines where fuel had been poured, and it spread quickly through the dry structure. Flames consumed the walls and pillars, fighting their way to the ceiling and the second floor.
Smoke filled the mill and climbed up and out of the windows. Grant coughed and shielded his nose and mouth with his shirt, but the acrid fumes filtered through. He jumped over the growing flames and skidded to a stop where Rick was tied. He reached for the knife in his pocket and cut the zip ties from Rick’s ankles and the back of his hands.
Heat reddened Grant’s face, and his body broke out into a thick sweat as he lifted Rick by the armpits and dragged him toward the door.
Ambers drifted through the air, and the darkness that had filled the mill was replaced by the agitated flames that feasted on what remained of the structure. Smoke continued to build, and Grant’s chest cramped from the fumes.
Grant exited the mill, dragging Rick’s body as far from the structure as he could until his legs collapsed from under him. Every breath choked him. His throat and lungs burned. He rose to his hands and knees and glanced back at the burning mill.
Smoke flooded through the windows, blacking out the sky above, and bits of what remained of the roof were already crumbling away.
Disoriented, Grant stood, then stumbled in a half circle, but stopped abruptly when he saw Callahan and his henchmen standing on the edge of the clearing near the trees.
The old man was smiling, and his pair of bodyguards kept their rifles aimed casually at the structure. His presence was sobering. Even if Grant went back into the flames and pulled Mocks out, Callahan had no intention of letting them survive. This was just another game. Strings to pull on his playthings to entertain, then dispose of when they no longer amused him.
Grant sprinted back toward the flaming structure, the heat unbearable as he rushed through the wall of smoke at the door. A thick filter of fumes darkened even the fires inside, and Grant stumbled blindly, every breath choking him.
“Mocks!” Grant said, his voice raspy. “Mocks!”
The first floor was consumed with fire, but the second had yet to fully catch. He blindly found the stairs to his left, remembering the location of the stairs prior to the fire. He hunched over on his ascent, hearing the wooden steps groaning and bending with his weight. He avoided the handrails, flames already crawling up the top. A few of the steps had caught fire as well, and Grant jumped over them to the second floor.
Grant hacked up a spat of phlegm that felt like one of his lungs had dislodged. He wheezed in crippling short gasps and was forced to shut his eyes to shield himself from the smoke.
Finally, Grant lifted his head and forced his bloodshot, watering eyes to open. The collapse of the roof had consumed most of the second floor. But near the back wall on her side and tied to a post was his partner.
“Mocks!” Grant crawled forward, unable to stand anymore, his hands and feet gliding over the hot wood, covering him in soot. Loud cracks and pops filtered through the air, and Grant knew the place wasn’t going to stand for much longer.
Grant fumbled for the knife in his pocket and untied the rope around Mocks’s ankles and wrists. She was unconscious, a gag in her mouth. Thank god she was so light, because as Grant wrapped his arms around her, his body groaned in defiance.
A loud crackling caught Grant’s attention, and he turned toward the stairs only to watch them collapse. And as the stairs gave way, the floor buckled.
The disruption sparked another burst of embers that rained over Grant and Mocks. He pulled Mocks close and shielded her body. The roar of the flames, the crack of wood, and voices in his own mind blocked out the ability to think. He glanced down at Mocks’s face, which had darkened from the soot. He couldn’t let them die here. Not like this.
A faint ray of light where the smoke escaped through a window illuminated the hazy veil of fumes and flames. Grant grabbed hold of Mocks and the rope and yanked her toward the window. Twice Grant was forced to stop, his body convulsing. Oxygen deprivation was taking hold, and nearly all of his vision had blacked out. Only a small keyhole of clarity remained to guide him forward.
Another loud crack, and the floor jolted and the roof lowered. Grant hastened his pace. Five feet away. Then four feet. Then three. Another round of coughing paralyzed him and he lost his grip on Mocks’s shoulder. He lost feeling in his feet and legs. Numb fingers fumbled clumsily over Mocks’s shirt and he pulled her forward, but only for a few inches before he lost his grip again. Grant’s lungs turned to bricks, and he breathed short, lifeless gasps that worsened the dizziness.
The floor rumbled again and flaming debris fell over Grant and Mocks. A crack in the roof appeared and offered another escape for the smoke. The thick black pea soup lessened a bit, and Grant took hold of Mocks once more.
They were less than a foot from the window now. One final push, every muscle in his body breaking down, and the insides of his chest burning and melting into nothing from the fire and smoke around him.
Grant stood next to the open window, gulping as much air as he could in the small sliver of space below the column of smoke escaping the same imprisonment. He reached back for Mocks and pulled her head out into the open. He wasn’t sure if she was
even breathing, and he wasn’t in sound mind to check.
A fifteen-foot drop stood in the way to their freedom. Bushes lined the ground, and they would soften the blow a little. The roof groaned, cracked, and gave way again, this time dropping a foot before stopping.
Grant pulled Mocks to the edge, then tied the rope back around her wrists. He lowered her body over the side feet first, keeping hold of her hands in the process, then when her arms were stretched as far as they would go he grabbed the rope and lowered her until the rope ran out, turning the fifteen foot drop into four feet. Grant let the rope go and Mocks’s lifeless body crumpled into the bushes with a thud.
The building trembled beneath Grant’s stomach and he pushed himself to his hands and knees. He lingered at the edge. Another groan from the roof, and it finally gave way. Grant jumped from the ledge of the window and his body tensed before impact.
He landed feet first, and his left leg cracked as he crumpled into the grass and bushes. He screamed, but his voice was drowned out by the crash of the mill as it caved in on itself.
Grant whimpered and examined his leg. He couldn’t see the extent of the injury with his pants still on, so he reached for his knife and slashed the fabric. Once the cloth was removed, it revealed a large bruise on the front quad of his left leg. He poked it and he screamed as his leg barked in anger.
He hacked and coughed, and then his stomach soured, and he turned to his side, retching a pile of bile that was as hot and black as the smoke he’d just inhaled. He spit, but was unable to rid himself of the taste, and collapsed. His lungs ached, and his brain buzzed from the lack of oxygen.
Slowly, Grant lifted his head and spotted Mocks sprawled out in a lifeless mess in the bushes. He forced himself to sit up, a sharp pain running from his leg all the way up his left side. He leaned to the right, putting all his weight on that side, keeping his left leg as straight and as immobile as possible.
But even the smallest movement triggered pain, and before Grant was even able to lift his butt off the ground, he was forced to stop. His will had smoldered into nothing, like the mill that nearly burned him alive.
Shouts made him lift his head, and it triggered another jolt of pain. His leg was already swelling from the fracture. The shouts drew closer, and he remembered the pair of bodyguards with rifles next to Callahan on the other side of the mill.
Grant forced himself up. He hobbled toward Mocks and grabbed her arm, too weak to pull her any other way, and dragged her deeper into the forest.
It was slow, and painful. Mind-numbingly painful. Every limp forward stabbed knives into Grant’s body. And just before the pair of shooters stepped around the mill, Grant hid Mocks behind the cover of bushes and he dropped to the ground next to her, muffling his pained noises and concentrating on not giving away their position.
The pair of guards continued to chat back and forth, and their voices were soon drowned out by the thump of helicopter blades. The wind from the aircraft gusted smoke into the forest where Grant and Mocks were hidden, and Grant knew his window was short.
Grant shifted his weight back onto his right leg as he used the tree trunk next to the bushes to help himself up. The smoke blew through like a hazy fog and once again choked the breath from Grant’s lungs.
But the smoke provided cover, blinding Grant and the gang members to a visibility of less than a foot. Grant remained quiet and listened for the sound of footfalls. He clutched the knife in his hand, his arm coiled to strike. A rifle’s barrel entered his view, and Grant spun around, leading with the tip of his knife, and found the thug’s throat.
Blood spurted out in a geyser, warm claret covering Grant’s face in a splatter as the thug clawed at Grant’s arm. The man dropped to his knees, gurgling his last few breaths. Grant snatched the rifle from the ground and immediately raised it to the hazy fog that still covered the forest floor.
Grant limped forward cautiously, his finger over the trigger. The chopper blades wound down and the smoke began to clear.
A shadow appeared to his left and Grant turned fast, too fast. The pain in his leg caused him to collapse and groan. The incident caught the thug’s attention and he turned and fired, missing Grant as he fell.
From the grass, Grant raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger until the shadow dropped to the ground. The thump of helicopter blades ended, and Grant rolled to his side, hacking up another wad of black phlegm. He stood, using the rifle as a crutch as he approached the still-burning mill.
Grant crept along the side and slowed once he neared the edge. He craned his neck around the side and got one look at the chopper before the guard and pilot spotted him. They shouted in Cebuano, and Grant fired, squeezing the trigger before he had gotten the chance to aim properly.
The first four bullets missed, but the next three connected with the pilot, and then the next four dropped the co-pilot. Grant then swung the rifle’s sight toward a stunned Callahan, rushing from the chopper’s tail toward the deck, but the old man wasn’t faster than Grant’s trigger finger.
Two bullets entered Callahan’s side and he tripped to the ground, sprawling out on his belly, moaning from the gunshot wounds. Grant checked left and right, making sure there weren’t any more surprises, but when no more gunshots sounded, he figured the coast was clear.
Grant lowered the weapon and limped toward the old man still wallowing on the ground. He watched Callahan try and reach inside his jacket, but Grant fired another shot close to the old man’s body and he stopped.
Two red blotches covered the bullet holes in Callahan’s left side, and blood dripped onto the grass, some of it smeared from the way he wallowed on the ground.
Grant walked over, the pain in his leg displayed in full with each grimace of his face. By the time he reached the old man, Grant couldn’t even hold the rifle up anymore.
Callahan sucked air, his mouth reddening with blood. “So,” he coughed, and specks of blood fell onto his chin and white shirt. “Finally come to slay the devil?” He frowned and another spat of hacking, this round more vicious than the previous one. He clutched his side where his wounds were, gingerly grazing his fingers over the holes, then winced upon contact and retracted his hand. “Go on then, Detective.”
“You’ve abducted and molested children,” Grant said. “Murdered, ripped apart families, shuttled drugs and sex slaves for profit. You don’t deserve a trial. A cell would be too good for you. Even with the knowledge of what they’d do to you in prison.”
“I’m sure I’d get mine,” Callahan said. “But you want to do it yourself. Take my lesson and make it come full circle.” He nodded to the rifle. “Or are you too weak to stomach it?”
Grant looked at the rifle that hung from his fingertips, then to the deck of the chopper. A can of gasoline was on board. Grant dropped the rifle and reached for it.
“No!” Callahan held up his hand as Grant soaked the old man with fuel from head to toe.
Grant emptied the can, tossed it aside, and then retrieved Mocks’s green Bic from Callahan’s jacket pocket. He gave the lighter a careful flick, mindful of his fuel-soaked hands, and watched the flame sprout from the top.
“You were right,” Grant said. “It does feel good to get what you want.”
Grant tossed the lighter onto Callahan’s body and stepped back as the old man caught fire. He writhed on the ground, screaming, rolling to try and put the fire out, but he was covered in too much fuel.
The odor of burnt flesh and charcoaled clothes was nauseating, and watching the old man’s flesh melt and blacken made him sick to his stomach. But he watched the old man until the screams and movement ended. And when it was over, Grant turned around, limping back toward Rick and Mocks and the collapsed, smoldering sawmill.
Chapter 13
The hospital machines beeped in a steady rhythm, which Grant found to be a comforting sign, considering they were hooked up to him. He’d slept for most of the day, but with his leg in a cast, there wasn’t much else he could do.
/> He jiggled his left wrist and tugged against the cuffs that kept him in the bed. That didn’t help his mobility either. He glanced over to the door where the pair of officers watched his room. He rested his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes.
He’d been stuck in the room for almost three days now. He’d had visits from nearly everyone, even the ambassador, but there was still one he was waiting for. A hard smack to Grant’s right shoulder opened his eyes.
“Hey.”
The expression on Mocks’s face was stoic. She stood there, dressed in a blue blouse, and her hair brushed off her face and tucked behind her ears, those green eyes focused on him. The oxygen tank was at her side, and the mask in it hung limp in her hand.
Both of them still had trouble breathing from the smoke inhalation, though Mocks’s was worse because she was unconscious. The doctors said the gag around her mouth saved her life because it blocked most of the smoke from her lungs.
And then, without a word, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. He slowly reciprocated, giving her a gentler squeeze than he received, and she sniffled into his shoulder.
“You owe me a new lighter,” Mocks said.
Grant laughed, and it triggered a spat of coughing, and she lifted her oxygen mask in a peace offering gesture.
“Want a hit?” she asked.
“No, no,” Grant answered, coughing and waving her off. “I’m fine.”
“I had to check with the doctors to make sure there wasn’t anything addicting in here,” Mocks said, looking down at the tank. “I suppose this is one thing that I’m supposed to be addicted to.”
“Breathing is important,” Grant said. “How’s Rick?”
“Some of his stitching had opened up, but no further damage to report,” Mocks answered. “He would have come, but the cops made him wait in the hall. I think the only reason they let me inside is because they knew we were partners. That, and I didn’t have my gun on me.” She smiled, but it faded. “What do you know so far?”