by Jeremy Brown
Razvan took Nora into the house through the side door and stopped and listened.
The door led into the kitchen, a large square with white cabinets and black countertops.
The light fixture hanging from the middle of the ceiling was low enough to hit Razvan in the face, so he stepped around it and tilted his head like he was feeling the vibrations in the house, the sounds.
The ugly pistol was still in his hand, hanging down by his leg.
Nora watched him, waiting, wondering if Adam—or whatever his real name was—and the others knew they’d gone inside.
The one with the glasses was out in the field somewhere, so he probably knew.
The question was, did he care?
“The house is empty,” Razvan said.
“Yes. Like I told you.”
He nodded.
“I’ll check anyway. Give me a tour.”
Then he grinned at her, his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes making her stomach turn.
“Your parents never offered.”
She grimaced and led the way out of the kitchen into the dining room, then the family room, then the home office with stacks of papers and equipment catalogs that she’d sorted and stacked but really ought to toss out.
She showed him the downstairs bathroom and he checked behind the shower curtain, leading with the pistol.
He asked her, “Have you gotten any good offers?”
“No.”
“A shame. This is a very nice home. When I get my money back, I’ll buy it from you.”
“No,” she said again.
He looked at her, the skin on his face stretched into a concerned frown.
“You shouldn’t hold a grudge about what happened between me and your mother and father. It was business, just like selling a house is business. I make you a good offer, you accept.”
“I’ll burn it down myself before I let you have it.”
He shrugged and walked toward the stairs leading to the second floor.
“Burn the barns too. More farmland for us to use. Is your boyfriend coming into town soon?”
The sudden pivot caught Nora off guard.
She waited too long to answer, and Razvan started to smile again.
She tried to turn it around on him.
“Why do you want to know?”
He stood there at the bottom of the stairs, smiling at her like he knew something she didn’t and wanted to savor the moment.
As he climbed the stairs, the gun still hanging at his side, he said, “Do you know a man named Charles Larson?”
Nora stayed at the base of the steps.
She knew Charlie, but had no idea where this was going.
“Yes, why?”
She could hear his footsteps as he moved from room to room above her, and doors opening, and his voice.
“One of my men, Luca—you know Luca, of course—stopped Charles Larson as he drove his truck into town. This was after we saw the white truck coming out this way, and Charles Larson came from the same direction the white truck had come. So Luca wanted to know if Charles Larson had seen anything.”
Nora gripped the wooden newel post at the bottom of the stairs.
Razvan’s voice fell on her from above.
“From what Luca told me, Charles Larson seemed nervous. Possibly even guilty. So Luca stuck a knife under his kneecap, and do you know what Charles Larson told Luca?”
Razvan appeared at the top of the stairs, just his legs and torso and the gun visible from where Nora stood.
“He told Luca that he saw your boyfriend, the guitar singer, in the white truck.”
Bruder crouched behind the seat of some sort of tractor in the back left corner of the shed.
The tractor was high enough to see between the cabs of the larger machines in front of him, but not high enough to highlight his spot, make it a focal point.
He waited, watching a narrow strip of light along the edge of the shed door, about thirty yards away.
Scanning to the left, his view was blocked by some chutes and smokestacks, then he could see all the way to the other side of the opening.
He could hear Connelly in the front corner, shifting around and cursing under his breath.
Bruder let it go.
He’d tell him to knock it off when someone approached the shed.
The Romanian in the wooden barn had come back out to stand by the pickup truck. He was watching the sheds, apparently waiting for Razvan to come out of the house before checking them.
The man with the machine gun was still on the road.
That put a small wrinkle into the plan.
That, and Razvan having Nora inside the house.
If the man from the barn poked his head inside and got it shot off, Kershaw would have to take out the man with the machine gun.
Then, what?
Razvan takes the woman hostage and calls for backup?
They storm the house and get into a firefight?
No.
Bruder’s choice would be to pack the money into the pickup and drive away.
But he didn’t like leaving Razvan behind him to make calls to whoever he had left and the crew coming in from Chicago.
Or go to work on the woman, getting what little information she could offer.
Whatever she told him, it would be too much.
So Bruder sat and waited.
He had one of the remotes for the explosives tucked in the hopper with the duffels of money.
Kershaw had the other two.
So if it came down to it and Razvan took her as a hostage, they had a hostage of their own to negotiate with.
Until somebody got a chance to shoot Razvan, hopefully.
It was all a mess, and unnecessary, but there wasn’t any point in dwelling on it or getting frustrated.
He just looked at what was in front of them and how to get around it or through it.
Over the radio Kershaw said, “Razvan on the second floor, looking out the window. AK still by the truck.”
Bruder heard an irritated sound from Connelly’s corner, like he wanted to know more.
Too bad for him.
Then Kershaw said, “No sign of Nora,” like he thought it would soothe Connelly’s nerves.
“Goddam it,” Connelly whispered.
Things were quiet for almost a minute.
“Razvan and Nora back on the porch,” Kershaw said. “AK starting toward you. He’s not in a hurry.”
Bruder sat and waited.
He kept still when Connelly pulled himself out from under the trailer and stood up, in full view of anyone who looked around the door.
Bruder keyed his mic.
“Get back to your spot.”
Rison and Kershaw were both in their spots, so they knew who he was talking to.
Instead, Connelly picked his way through the machinery and equipment toward Bruder.
Bruder watched him coming, making noise and inviting fire from the AK when it arrived, and decided he’d had enough.
Connelly was a good breacher, a good thief, but he was going to get them all killed.
Bruder touched the mic and whispered, “Are we still clear?”
Kershaw said, “AK by garages. He’s waiting for Razvan.”
Too close for anything that made noise.
Bruder pulled the knife out of the horizontal sheath on the back of his belt and waited for Connelly to get close enough.
Kershaw said, “Nora is on her phone. Not talking, I think she’s making a call. And, ah, Razvan has the gun in her face.”
Connelly stumbled over a bundle of hydraulic hoses and leaned up toward Bruder with his arm outstretched, making it easy.
Bruder would grab the wrist and pull him onto the blade, up under the chin, then drop down and wrap an arm around his face and keep him quiet while he sawed around.
Connelly was three steps away, then two, when he said, “Nora’s calling me.”
Bruder saw the phone in the outstretched hand.
It vibrated and the screen was lit up.
“She’s standing out there with Razvan, calling me. What do you want to do?”
“Don’t answer,” Bruder said.
He kept the blade ready while they stared at the phone until it went silent, the call kicked into voicemail.
“She’s talking,” Kershaw said in their earpieces.
Connelly could hear, but not respond.
He whispered to Bruder, “What about Razvan? The gun?”
Bruder ignored him.
After a few seconds Kershaw said, “Phone call’s over. She handed the phone to Razvan.”
Bruder said, “Where’s the AK?”
“Looking in the garages.”
Bruder told Connelly, “The message.”
Connelly hit some buttons and made sure the volume was low before he put it on speaker.
Nora’s shaky voice said, “Adam, it’s Nora. I need you to call me back as soon as you get this. I, um…just call me. Please. It’s important. It’s about today. Call me.”
The message ended.
Connelly’s eyes were fierce inside the balaclava.
“We gotta go kill that fucker.”
“Give me the phone.”
“What for?”
Bruder held his hand out. The one without the knife in it.
Connelly slapped the phone into his palm and Bruder slid it into a pocket.
“Let’s go,” Connelly said.
“Not yet.”
“Why the hell not?”
Bruder touched the mic and asked Kershaw, “Do you have a shot on the gunner?”
“Nope. He’s hunkered down behind the engine block with the gun in front of his face. I don’t even have a clear shot on Razvan, unless we’re okay with Nora getting hit too.”
Connelly shook his head.
Bruder didn’t care about that, but he didn’t like the machine gun out there, untouchable and free to hose the landscape down.
Kershaw said, “AK going between the garages and the first shed, checking behind. I can’t see him.”
Bruder and Connelly both turned their attention to the other side of the back wall, listening for movement.
They heard nothing.
Kershaw said, “Wait, he’s back. He’s moving. Razvan too. They’re all heading toward the sheds.”
“All?” Bruder said.
“Yeah. Razvan has the gun on Nora, holding her close. AK is at the first shed. He has his phone out. Talking to the machine gunner, my guess.”
Bruder told Connelly, “Get back to your spot.”
Connelly stood there and tapped his trigger finger against the side of his rifle.
“If she gets shot,” he said, “I’m going to be a problem.”
He turned and crept back to his corner.
Bruder put the blade away and flicked the rifle’s safety selector to single shot and pointed it at the opening, listening to the approaching footsteps.
“Open it,” Razvan said.
He kept the pistol aimed between her shoulder blades while she stepped forward and opened the sliding door to the first metal shed.
Razvan walked with her, keeping the door and her body between him and anybody who might be inside.
Benj was off to the right of the opening with his gun ready.
His phone was in his breast pocket with Mihail listening on the other end.
When the door was all the way open Razvan studied the interior from the left side.
He saw an orange Kubota tractor with wet grass and leaves stuck to its wheels and attachments.
A bunch of other farm equipment meant for bigger tractors.
Belts and hoses and chains hanging on a pegboard along the back.
He pushed Nora into the opening and followed, crouching behind her with the gun pointing over her shoulder. It was hard on his back but better than getting shot.
Benj came in from the right, tracking with the rifle, and it was clear there was no white truck hidden among the equipment.
“Check the floor,” Razvan said.
Benj knelt down, then got on his belly and looked under the equipment.
He moved around until he was satisfied, then stood and shook his head.
“Nobody.”
“Next one,” Razvan said.
“Coming to you,” Kershaw said. “I have a shot on AK. Razvan, maybe, but he’s keeping Nora in tight. Machine gunner…still no shot.”
Bruder whispered, “If we shoot, do what you can on the gunner. And nobody shoots before me.”
The criteria for him pulling the trigger was a clear shot on both AK and Razvan.
If they only killed one of the Romanians, they risked getting into a shootout with the gunner out there and another one running around the property, either or both of them calling in backup, even if it was just two more guys.
Who knew what kind of firepower they might bring, including cops?
If they could take AK and Razvan down it would still be bad having the gunner left out at the road, but between the four of them they could keep him busy and away from the phone, hopefully, while somebody flanked him and ended it.
Also, hopefully, without anyone getting shot by the M249.
If they got spotted inside the shed before Bruder fired, he would call out about the explosives in with the money.
Then the negotiations would begin, and they’d probably be trapped inside the shed until the crew from Chicago arrived in—Bruder glanced at his watch—two or three hours.
At that point, things would have officially gone to hell.
A shadow leaked into the sunshine outside the doorway.
Bruder put his optics at the edge of the door, where the owner of the shadow’s head would appear, and waited.
When the face came around the door Bruder had it centered in his rifle’s holosight.
It was Nora, her mouth set in a flat line and her chest lifting and falling from short, tight breaths.
Razvan was tucked in behind her, as much as he could be.
His pistol was pressed under her left ear.
The one with the AK stepped out from behind Razvan and swept the inside of the shed with his barrel, his eyes bright and ready.
Bruder reminded himself they were looking for a white truck full of men, not just the men.
Not yet, anyway.
Razvan risked a peek over Nora’s shoulder and scanned the shed’s contents.
They moved to their right, blocked from Bruder by the chutes and stacks.
He eased the rifle to his left, the other side of the obstruction, and rested the sight’s red dot on AK’s forehead.
He touched the mic and barely breathed the words.
“Anyone have Razvan?”
“No,” Kershaw said.
Rison didn’t answer and Connelly couldn’t, except by firing.
Bruder whispered, “If you have Razvan, take him.”
He kept the dot on AK and waited.
Nobody fired.
Kershaw said, “He’s staying out in the driveway, behind Nora. If he takes her inside you might have a shot from the front corner.”
Which meant Connelly.
Bruder didn’t know if he’d take the shot.
Movement brought him back to the holosight and he watched as AK stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the shed, directly into Connelly’s sights.
If Connelly shot him, it would be a mad scramble to get at Razvan before he had a chance to make more trouble.
It wouldn’t end well, Bruder knew.
He waited for the shot, for everything to start happening quickly with more shots coming from Kershaw and the machine gunner, people yelling and dying.
AK moved deeper into the shed, out of Bruder’s view, then popped on the cab of the combine, craning his neck to see over and past the other machines.
Bruder kept still, a dark lump among the shadows in the back corner.
He didn’t move the rifle, wary of any reflection coming from the optics l
ens.
He looked just to the left of the man with the AK, not wanting him to feel any eyes.
After a moment the man shook his head and said something to Razvan in Romanian, then disappeared behind the combine.
Bruder watched him walk past the far side of the opening, heading for the other front corner of the shed.
“AK is checking the back side,” Kershaw said.
It was where the truck had been parked before they put it in the pond, but the crushed stone left no tracks.
He wouldn’t find anything.
When Bruder brought the rifle back to look for Razvan, he caught a glimpse of him and Nora moving to the right, blocked now by the shed’s door.
Kershaw said, “I have Razvan. Nora is close but I have the shot.”
“AK?” Bruder asked.
“Behind the shed, no go.”
Bruder searched the back wall, knowing there weren’t any doors or windows, but maybe there was a crack or hole or seam, and when a shape moved past he could put a burst through the steel and Kershaw could take Razvan.
But there was nothing, just ribbed metal and wooden posts and crossbeams.
Rison whispered, “What about when he passes between the sheds?”
“Bad angle, I can’t see all the way through,” Kershaw said. “If he comes out to the front, maybe.”
Everyone waited.
Then Kershaw said, “Razvan is at the truck. He’s putting Nora in. No sign of AK.”
Bruder heard Connelly moving, scraping along the floor to get out from under the trailer.
Kershaw said, “Razvan is in the truck, he’s backing up. Nora is in the front with him, in the middle. I—wait, AK is there, he went all the way around the house. He’s at the corner of the porch, looking down at the pond.”
Bruder dropped down from the tractor and worked through the equipment, catching up with Connelly at the edge of the doorway.
“We can’t let them leave,” Connelly said.
He had his balaclava off now, and his hair was matted with sweat.
Rison stepped out of the shadows on the other side of the opening.
“What’s the move?”
“Nothing,” Bruder said.
Connelly glared at him.
“Nothing? We can’t let them take her.”
“They want her to get to you,” Bruder said. “She’ll be fine until then.”