by Jordan Cole
Throop turned. Pressed her hand against the blue padding, like she could somehow divine what was inside it.
“What do you think?” she asked. “Left, right, or middle?”
“Definitely either left or right. Middle, we see him immediately. As soon as we come in. Too easy for one of us to get off a reflex shot. Left or right, there’s a moment of surprise. He shoots me when I go through, there’s confusion, then he shoots you. Most people are right handed, so turning and shooting that direction would be easier for us. My guess is left. He’s playing the odds.”
“He’ll have the advantage. He’ll see the padding moving, when we lift it up. Before we come inside.”
“Yeah. So we’ll trick him. You lift up the padding. Jiggle it around, nice and obvious. Then we wait. After thirty seconds, he’ll be freaking out. He’ll start fidgeting, second-guessing himself, wondering where the hell we are. Then I’ll run in and shoot him.”
“What if he just starts firing toward the gap?”
“Then he’s given away his position.”
“I don’t know.”
“If you’ve got a better idea, now’s the time.”
She shook her head. Riley motioned her forward. They approached the gap, the small open space cut into the padding, a tiny part hanging fractionally lower than the rest. Throop nodded. Sweat beading on her forehead, but her eyes were narrowed and focused. She grabbed a handful of the rubber padding and maneuvered her body to the side. Lifted it halfway, so that Riley could see a small portion of the space inside, but not big enough to fit through. Shook the padding around, side to side, front to back, flapping it like a towel. Riley crouched.
Five seconds passed. No sound from inside the walls. Throop stopped moving the fabric, holding it still.
Ten seconds. Then fifteen. He sucked in a breath. Wiped sweat from his hands and gripped the H&K closely. Let the tension drain from him.
Twenty seconds. No sounds at all. Holding their breath.
Twenty-five seconds.
Thirty seconds. He nodded.
Throop yanked the padding up as far as she could. Riley lowered his head and ran.
Bang bang bang
Three shots. No pause between them. Riley’s body moving through the air, propelled by some adrenaline-soaked force. It was Metzer who had fired. He was lying prone, his feet against the far-left corner, the Glock resting on his arms in front of him. Three snap shots, loosed with pure instinct as Riley barreled into the arena. But Riley was still in flight, still alive, and so the bullets must have missed him.
Riley landed hard on his right elbow, a searing numbness jolting his arm. He squeezed the trigger of the H&K. Three shots, also, but much faster. One quick uninterrupted burp of sound.
The first two shots hit Metzer in the left arm. The third tore through his right shoulder. He dropped the Glock. Rolled onto his side, his face contorted in pain.
“Wait a second,” Metzer said. “Wait a second.” His right palm outstretched. His left arm hanging at his side, bloodied and useless.
“Yeah?” Riley asked. “Why should I?”
Thoop came charging into the room. The padding flapped shut behind her. She swung her Beretta around to Metzer. Blood leaked from his shoulder. Metzer looked up at her abjectly. Some hope in his widening eyes now.
“I didn’t shoot your partner,” Metzer said. The words coming out fast and breathless and desperate. “That was Whitehall. All I did was make sure the Bureau stayed out of it. That’s all I did.”
“Where’d they take Agatha?” Riley said.
“The other part of the compound. A few miles south. There’s a prisoner’s hut. An interrogation hut. They probably brought her there.”
“How many men?”
“I don’t know exactly. Ten at the most. Maybe less.”
Throop turned to Riley.
“Anything else?” she asked. Riley shook his head. Felt a moment of pity, seeing Metzer writhe on the floor in his cheap suit, abject fear on his face. Then he thought about Dallas, who never had a chance. Thought about the silver box they were going to bury him alive in. Thought about Agatha hauled into the Jeep, screaming and pleading.
Before Riley could do anything, Throop fired.
The bullet took Metzer through the forehead. A hell of shot. He sprawled out on the padded floor, a bloody new third eye drilled into his skull. Dead as dirt.
“Nice aim,” Riley said. “Let’s not waste time hang wringing. We've got more work to do.”
“No one’s wringing anything,” Throop said. Looked as though she meant it.
They left Metzer where he lay and retreated through the funhouse training ground, past the gaudy fake criminals and hostages. Emerged back onto the lawn just in time for Riley to see a portly guy charging toward them as quickly as he could, which was not very quick at all. Throop placed a staying hand on the stock of Riley’s submachine gun.
“It’s all right,” she said. “He’s with us.”
The portly guy had fuzzed blonde hair, and a round baby face. He was panting like he’d just run a marathon, sweat lining his brow. In his hands was a Remington .700 topped with a dark cylindrical suppressor. A night vision scope attached to the barrel. Without a doubt the rifle that had scared off Metzer and Kovac moments before. He was wearing a gray hunter’s jacket and matching pants.
“Where’s Metzer?” he asked, the words coming out in a strained wheeze.
“Dead,” Riley said. “Who are you?”
“That’s a relief. I’m Dan Hennessey. Charlemagne county sheriff.”
Riley shook his head in disbelief.
“You had night vision on that thing? And you were still missing ten yards high? Who taught you how to shoot? Ray Charles?”
“Listen pal,” Hennessey started. Still straining to catch his breath. “We got a dynamic situation here. We’d just arrived on the scene, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. I’m a law officer. I can’t just be taking potshots at people without being certain.”
“You were missing on purpose?”
“I still saved your ass, didn’t I? Otherwise you’d still be tied up on the ground over there. I wasn’t about to shoot anybody unless Renee was in danger.”
“Christ on a crutch,” said Riley.
“They’ve got the Dumont woman,” Throop said to Hennessey. “Brought her to another part of...I guess we’re on some sort of militia compound?”
“It was a training camp,” Riley said. “A bent ex-one star general and some special forces spooks were training would-be terrorists in the finer points of combat. Getting them ready to go overseas and stir up trouble.”
“That would explain the shooting gallery in the farmhouse,” Throop said caustically.
“Special forces?” Hennessey asked. “Are you sure about this?”
“Pretty damn sure. Don’t know the exact number. I bumped off two of them back in DC. Plus Metzer and his buddy by the Town Car over there. Which leaves Frazier and his point man, Whitehall, who took Agatha. They had another team of two tracking us around Agatha’s apartment, who must be here. Best guess would be at least two more, maybe four or six, but that seems like pushing it for a last-minute operation like this. I’d say no more than eight, total.”
“However many doesn’t matter,” Hennessey said. “We’ll get on the horn and call the cavalry.”
“Good luck with that,” Riley said. “We’re in a communications dead zone. No phones or radios will work. And even if they did, it’ll take SWAT at least an hour or two to get out here. Agatha will be dead by then. Either they’ll get what they’re after or decide it’s too much risk and get rid of her. Then they’ll scatter.”
“What are you saying?” Throop asked.
“I’m saying it’s up to the three of us to do something. Otherwise Agatha dies, and they get away with it.”
Hennessey spat on the ground. Put a hand against his head.
“Well, shit.”
“Yeah,” Riley said. “Shit.”
“That your friend?” he asked.
Riley nodded.
“Sorry, man. We botched this whole thing from the beginning. Metzer had us running in circles, chasing our tails.” Riley shrugged sadly. He’d been fooled just as badly by Metzer. No sense in apportioning blame now.
“What finally tipped you off?”
“That would be woman’s intuition,” Hennessey said, nodding proudly at Throop. “She knew he was full of shit from the beginning. Took me way too long to see it.”
“Not just that,” Throop said. “Lots of little things that bugged me. It was like he had a preternatural knowledge of what happened. Tracked the crime scene just a little too efficiently. And we found out he’d been talking to Dallas Henderson.”
“I met up with Metzer in St. Louis,” Riley said. “He was giving me leads. Thought he was on my side. But he was just snaring me into a trap.”
“The last straw came yesterday,” Throop said. “When they found your Oldsmobile in Knoxville. Metzer’s demeanor was all wrong. He demanded to meet with me. It was like he didn’t want you to be found. I thought maybe the two of you were working together. I was on my own. I wasn’t even supposed to be involved in the search for Riley, in any official capacity. But Metzer was in a big hurry to get somewhere. I had a strange feeling he was up to something.”
“In lieu of any official support, she slapped a GPS tracker on his ride and called me up,” Hennessey said. “I never liked that slimy bastard, so I was happy to oblige. We followed him up here and then the GPS gave out. By that point we were close enough to trail him on foot. Radio quiet zone. Ain’t that a hell of a thing.”
“You always bring a rifle with a night vision scope with you on stakeouts?” Riley asked. He wouldn’t have been altogether surprised if Hennessey answered in the affirmative.
“Thought it might come in useful,” Hennessey said. “Taxpayers give the department a budget for all sorts of high tech gear. Then when you showed up and things went off the rails, I figured it was time to unpack it. Wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but it looked bad. About as bad as your face looks, right about now.”
“I’ll live,” Riley said, trying not to be reminded about the spreading pain in his gums and temples. “Could use a drink, though.”
Hennessey produced a flask from his huntsman’s jacket, so fast that Riley almost smiled. He drank from it heavily. Rye whiskey. Somehow, Riley knew it would be. He felt warmth glowing in his gut, and a momentary reprieve from the pain. He handed it back and nodded thanks.
“This very well could be suicide,” Riley said. “If you two want to hang back and wait for reinforcements, I’d be the last to blame you.”
“They killed my partner,” Throop said. “Metzer said it himself. Not giving them another chance to slip away.”
“The lady needs our help,” Hennessey said. His words braver than his expression. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Can you shoot that thing? And actually hit something this time?”
“Sure. From a few hundred yards out, I’ll hit whatever they can throw at me. But if the guy who shot Ramirez is out there, and he gets a bead on me, I’m a dead man. I can’t shoot like that. Not even close.”
“My guess is he’ll oversee the interrogation. We’ll try to make sure the rifle stays out of his hands.”
“They’ll have heard the shots,” Throop said. “They’ll know we’re coming.”
“Not necessarily,” Riley said. “Hennessey’s rifle was suppressed. If there’s a few miles of ravines and trees between here and the other part of the camp, it could have muffled the sound. Especially if they’re inside, trying to deal with Agatha. They had me tied up. And it’s not like they’re in constant radio contact with each other.”
“So if they’re not waiting for us, we might have a chance.”
“Twenty minutes ago I figured my odds of surviving the night were about a thousand to one. I’d say they’ve improved considerably since then.”
“Maybe two hours until daylight,” Throop said. “Have to imagine that’s all the time we’re gonna get.”
“We won’t need two hours,” Riley said. “Not if we do it right.”
29.
They rode together in what Riley assumed was one of Charlemagne county’s unmarked squad cars, a gunmetal Crown Vic with a mercifully quiet engine. With the headlights off, it was nearly invisible. They were in the darkest part of night, maybe an hour before the first hint of dawn would brighten the horizon. Visibility was an issue. Hennessey eased the car slowly through dips and bumps along the grass, wide expanses that bottomed out into little wells that weren’t quite ravines, but would still rattle the transmission if they were taken too fast. Without a sickly half-moon overhead, navigation would have been impossible.
Riley could see why Metzer had chosen the farmhouse for the rendezvous. It was set way off from the rest of the compound, far enough that Riley and the others would have had almost no possibility of stumbling upon the training ground by accident. Even now he strained to make anything out, operating mostly by feel, straining to discern shapes and form in the darkness. Throop beat him to it.
“Something ahead,” she said. “Looks like the outline of a building.”
She was right. Very far ahead--maybe five hundred yards in the distance--there was a barely discernible discrepancy in the air. A slightly different shade of black from what surrounded it. Some sort of building, sizable enough to blot out a portion of the horizon.
“Park it here,” Riley said. “We’ll go the rest of the way on foot. Too noisy otherwise.”
Hennessey killed the motor and they all three got out of the Crown Vic. Hennessey retrieved the rifle from his trunk, moving slowly and deliberately. The fat night vision scope was still attached to the stock, and Hennessey sighted it in the direction Throop was pointing.
“What do you see?”
“Decent-sized building,” Hennessey said, the scope pressed tight against his right eye. “Maybe a stockade or an armory. About a thousand square feet. Can’t see any people.”
“Anything that looks rounded? Like a Quonset hut?”
He shook his head.
“Some buildings farther down, but smaller. Square. Latrines maybe. There’s a fence a few hundred yards nearer to us. Looks like it loops all the way around the compound.”
“Can we get over it?”
“Do I look like Spiderman to you?” Hennessey said. “I can’t climb a damn fence topped with razor wire.”
“Who said anything about razor wire?”
“I did. Just now. But we don’t need to go over it. There’s a bolt cutter in the trunk. Slice right through that chain link.”
“Throop. You grab it. Hennessey, we need to find a spot where you can get prone and cover us with the rifle. Someplace that gives you a wide berth and a good vantage of the compound.”
“If that big building has windows, that might do it. Can’t really tell from here.”
“Okay,” Riley said. “We can’t afford to waste time. Let’s grab what we need and go. We move quickly but quietly. Right now we have the element of surprise, and that’s about all we have.”
“Not true. We’ve got a night vision scope and a rifle that shoots bullets.”
Riley didn’t respond. Throop removed the bolt cutter from the trunk and they fanned out through the grassy plain. Trees dotted the landscape, but not nearly enough to provide adequate cover. If there were sentries, or motion detectors, they’d be made instantly. Three targets converging rapidly on the compound. But they had little choice. And the place was large. A skeleton crew of Frazier’s guys couldn’t be watching the entire compound. It was impossible. You’d need someone posted every square mile. The place would be crawling with life. And right now, Riley, Throop and Hennessey seemed like the last three people in the universe. Slicing through the night, low and quic
k, like a curving blade. Leaves and twigs and branches crunched underfoot.
The fence loomed ahead, a chain link design that would have been easy to climb if not for a tangle of razor wire strung along the top. Just looking at it was enough to give you tetanus. Traversing it in the darkness without cutting yourself to ribbons would have been near-impossible. Fortunately, they had the bolt cutters. Throop worked quickly, scissoring the bolt cutters’ serrated edge against the chain link, tearing through it like construction paper. Before long she’d made a human-sized hole and they went through, Hennessey squeezing his bulk through the tight opening, followed by Throop and Riley.
The large building stood out in greater resolution now, a few hundred yards away. On the inside of the fence the grass was shorter, cut recently, and there was little in the way of cover. They were exposed. Riley motioned for them to follow and burst into a sprint. Ran with his head down, staying as low as he could, aiming for the fat rear of the building, shaded from the rest of the compound. Heard Throop directly behind him and Hennessey farther back, laboring to keep up.
Work through it, tubby, Riley thought. Of all the nights to be slowing down, this wasn’t one of them.
They crossed over from grass onto a gravel track, which looked as if it served as a connective road throughout the compound. Maybe fifty yards ahead was the building, squat and gray and empty-looking. He made the final stretch in a dead sprint, every stride feeling exposed and vulnerable, his footsteps against the gravel sounding like exploding bombs. Reached the building and pressed his back against the brick rear wall, breathing heavily. Throop joined him shortly thereafter, still clutching the unwieldy bolt cutter in front of her, and Hennessey thundered forward after some delay, huffing and puffing, his face flushed against the darkness.
Riley listened for noises. Nothing, aside from Hennessey’s labored breathing. The building was stout brick, and he had the sense it was empty. No real evidence. Just an ear for the ticks and vibrations that occupied buildings gave off, and this one wasn’t sending them. Riley trailed along the rear with his hand against the wall, until he came to a long metallic sheet that seemed to open upward, like a garage door. A handle on the bottom guarded by a sturdy padlock. Waved for Throop who got to work on it with the bolt cutters, and a minute later the padlock fell away. Riley yanked the door upward a sliver and got a quick view of the inside. Moonlight filtered in and he caught a glimpse of rows of shelves and cabinets, a long warehouse. An armory, for sure. But the guns were likely already gone. Transported somewhere else. He let the door close softly and turned to Hennessey, who had finally managed to catch his breath.