The spray of bullets had hit the passenger side of the Tahoe directly during the turn, shattering two more windows.
“Zoe?”
Ellmann’s voice was calling me. But I was still hunkered down in the seat, trying to keep away from the bullets. I didn’t have a hand to answer him. I felt the mic on my lap, but I couldn’t let go of the wheel. I tried to reach for it with my left hand.
“Zoe, answer me.”
I couldn’t make my arm move, but my fingers were still working. I pulled the baggy sweatshirt to the left, until my fingers found the mic.
“Rita, is the car still moving?” Ellmann asked. His voice was so strained I hardly recognized it.
I hit the button on the mic, but realized Rita had hit hers at the same time. I released mine and heard the last part of her transmission.
“—moving toward your position.”
“I only got half of that,” he said, more hopeful. “Someone keyed you out. Zoe? Tell me you did that.”
“Yes,” I called as a bullet tore through the headrest of the passenger seat and pierced the windshield. “Bad timing. Sorry.”
“I hear gunshots.”
“Yes. The little bastards won’t stop shooting!” I cried, more out of frustration than anything else. I was really, really tired of gunshots.
“Rita, where is she? How far away?”
“There was a lot of interference with the cell connection, and we lost it. Last known position was approximately ten miles from you.”
“Where am I supposed to turn?” I asked.
“You don’t worry about that,” Rita said. “I’ll reroute everyone else to meet you on this road.”
“Hurry,” I said over a soundtrack of gunfire.
When there was a break in the shooting, I sat up, though the effort was enough to cause unconsciousness to dance at the periphery of my mind. I could see a structure through the trees on the left: a house. As I flew forward, I saw another house on the right.
The more populated area led me to believe I was closer to town, and hopefully closer to Ellmann, Koepke, and their backup. I heard Rita and Ellmann on the radio chattering in official cop tones, using cop phrases, and I realized it was coming to me through a fog.
With the more-frequent dwellings was more light. As I passed beneath a streetlight at the end of a long driveway, I caught a glimpse of my arm. The blood had soaked through the sweatshirt to my elbow, the material hanging heavily on that side.
I didn’t know how long I’d been on this road, but it felt like forever. The battle to keep myself from passing out was a losing one, I knew. I flew by another house on the left, visible through the trees, as the others were. A ways down the road, I made out a clearing in the trees on the right. Through the rain, I could see a cabin sitting in the clearing with lights on in the windows. I also saw, too late, the road curve around to the left.
I was going too fast. I reached for the switch at the same time the bullets started flying again. I managed to get it to 4L, but I lost control. I touched the brakes and tried to direct the Tahoe to the left, but one of those bullets finally hit the tire, which had, statistically speaking, only been a matter of time. The tire blew as the SUV was rounding to the left. The combination caused the tire to lift off the ground and push the Tahoe over, off the road.
For a moment, the SUV seemed suspended in the air, two tires still touching the ground, everything else frozen in time and space. Then, as if someone hit the play button, everything was moving again. The SUV pitched up and over, landing on the passenger side and sliding down the embankment, away from the road. I felt the momentum continue to pull the Tahoe over, but the initial jolt flung me around and I hit my head. The unconsciousness I’d been forestalling closed in around me, and, in a blink, everything went black.
27
When I came back around for the second time that day, freezing wind and water were blowing onto my face. I was suspended in the seat by my seatbelt, lying on my left side against the door. I blinked, trying to clear away the last of the cobwebs. Raising a hand to block my eyes from the rain, I glanced through what was left of the splintered windshield. The SUV was lying on the driver’s side.
I heard the crackle of the CB radio and vaguely recognized Rita’s voice as it issued a message to Ellmann. From beyond the SUV somewhere, I heard other voices. Then the squish of boots in the mud.
They were coming for me. And there was no question about their intention. I had to move.
I released the seatbelt and crumpled against the door, gasping at the pain that burst throughout my shoulder. I struggled to get up, distantly aware of the glass cutting into the skin of my hands and through my jeans. What wasn’t soaked with blood was quickly soaked with rain, my clothes becoming heavy, cumbersome. As I worked myself out from under the steering wheel, I looked around for the gun. I could tell my brain still wasn’t firing on all cylinders, but I was slightly rejuvenated, the adrenaline of the crash fueling me.
I still (by some miracle) had one gun tucked into the waistband of my jeans, at the small of my back, but it held only fifteen shots. My odds would be better if I had twice that many. I spotted the second gun lying against the back window behind the driver’s seat. Once upright, I reached back and picked it up.
Bracing myself on the seat, I kicked at the damaged windshield. It broke free in a crumpled sheet with minimal effort. I kicked it away, then eased myself through the opening, gun at the ready.
Now that I was out of the SUV, I could see it had spun slightly in its trip off the road. The nose was pointing away from the road, just enough to shield me from view of those I knew were stomping down the hill after me. I hurried behind the vehicle and contemplated my ability to run the distance between it and the trees. It was probably only thirty feet, but I’m not a runner on my best day. Today was not my best day. It was a silly risk.
I also knew standing behind the Tahoe waiting for five pursuers to close in on me was stupid. I really didn’t want to kill anyone else, but I wasn’t about to roll over and die; I just don’t have it in me. I stumbled to the back of the SUV and leaned around it, gun raised. I saw the five of them, still dressed in black, all without masks now, marching toward me in a wide line. Horrified, I realized I recognized a second and third face among the crowd. I fired at the guy on the end. He stumbled and fell back, and the others scrambled to decide what to do.
Two of them raised their guns and squeezed off several shots, which struck the roof of the Tahoe. Another began running, sprinting toward the opposite end of the vehicle. I hurried to the other end and came around the front bumper in time to surprise him at ten feet. I squeezed off two shots, both of which struck him center mass.
Stepping around the SUV a bit further, I fired on the pursuers from the new position, hitting one. The two remaining redirected their fire, and I fell back. Over the ringing in my ears, the pounding of my pulse, and the rain, I swore I heard something very much like an engine.
“That’s the rest of our team,” Tina Shuemaker called.
Not good.
I was already outnumbered. Any more joiners to the party would put a serious cramp in my style, and this whole thing would end very badly for me. Of course, there was a chance it would end badly regardless.
Now I was certain I heard the sound of an engine. The engine was running high, and I thought it was approaching quickly. I tried to determine where it was coming from but wasn’t certain. My best guess was the direction I’d been heading before the crash. I leaned around the bumper, enough to see the road but not to draw fire from Shuemaker or her companion. Soon I saw the bounce of headlights. Then I saw the flickering glow of blue and red lights.
This wasn’t her backup; this was mine.
My hope was quickly overshadowed by panic as I saw the Dodge Durango race over the side of the road and down the embankment, heading into the clearing and straight toward me. Shuemaker and her friend had realized the same; this wasn’t the rest of their people. The two began firing
on the Durango. I heard the bullets hit the body and the glass. The passenger side window was open, and someone was returning fire.
I leaned around the bumper and took aim, firing the last of my first fifteen shots. My opponents were in the worst possible position, and they were now painfully aware of it. They were totally exposed with nowhere to run. The SUV flew forward, toward me, and the gun in my hand clicked empty. As I moved around the bumper, I noticed the first guy I’d hit was no longer on the ground.
I tossed the empty gun aside and grabbed the second from underneath my sweatshirt as I turned toward the other end of the Tahoe. I raised the gun in time to see the missing guy stumble around the SUV, gun in his hand, slumping forward and slightly to one side, bleeding from the abdomen. I saw him flinch and knew he was about to fire. In the same instant, the Durango slid into the overturned Tahoe. The Tahoe jumped with the impact, slamming into the guy just as he pulled the trigger. The shot went wide, and he flew backward. Hurrying away from the Durango as it continued to slide, I aimed at the guy as he landed in the mud several feet away. He struggled to raise his arm to take another shot, but the only sound was the report of my gun. He slumped back, his body limp.
The hurried movements had zapped my strength. I collapsed to my knees in the mud behind the Durango as the driver’s-side door flew open and a large man I’d never seen before spilled out. He was on his feet, hurrying around the back of the SUV then kneeling in the mud, firing at the others.
I leaned forward, bracing myself with my gun-hand on the ground. I knew I needed to get up, to at least aim the gun at the back of the Tahoe should one of them come around it, but I could barely hold myself upright. A second man shot out of the Durango. This one I recognized. I must have looked as bad as I felt, because I’d never seen Ellmann look so white, not once in the whole week and a half we’d known one another.
“Got another SUV approaching,” reported the cop, whom I assumed was Koepke.
“Copy that,” Ellmann acknowledged.
Ellmann hustled over to me and easily lifted me up, helping (mostly carrying) me over to the Durango. He lifted his gun and kept it trained on the exposed end of the Tahoe. I saw his jaw flex several times as he looked me over.
Keeping his eye on the exposed side, he went back to the open door of the Durango. Reaching a long arm inside and peering through the open window, he grabbed up the mic. After identifying himself to Rita, he relayed critical details of our situation and requested immediate medical response.
“Copy that,” she replied. “Contacting Flight For Life now. Zoe, hang in there.”
I would have thought it impossible for a helicopter to fly in such a downpour, but I guess they aren’t as affected by the rain as I’d thought. Lucky for me. Who knows how long it would have taken an ambulance to arrive all the way out here.
On the other side of the SUV, I heard another vehicle slosh down the muddy embankment and stop, followed by the sounds of car doors and voices.
“Looks like five or six more guys,” Koepke reported.
“Backup en route,” Ellmann answered. “ETA: three minutes.”
“That’s a long time.”
Koepke said aloud exactly what I’d been thinking. Three minutes was a lifetime.
“Zoe, how many shots do you have left?”
I looked at Ellmann and tried to focus. It was difficult. Next, I tried to think. That was even harder.
“Fourteen.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
“It’s shoot-to-kill here, Zoe,” he said.
“Way ahead of you,” I said, thinking of the three I’d already taken out.
“Hey, you better not die on me. Understand?”
“You and me,” I said, my mouth dry, “we’re on the same page there, too.”
He reached into the SUV again and withdrew a water bottle, which he handed to me. I accepted it and worked the lid off while he moved away toward the end of the Tahoe. Tossing the lid aside, I lifted the bottle to my lips and took a long drink. I felt the water rush down my esophagus and into my empty stomach. When half of it was gone, I pulled the bottle away and exhaled with a big sigh.
“Hey, Zoe?”
It was Koepke calling me.
“Yeah?”
I didn’t have the energy to get up and move just then.
“There’re eight of these guys now. Are any of them a good shot?”
I’d recognized one guy who definitely knew his way around a gun: Officer Pratt.
I reported this to Koepke. I shrugged as I lifted the water bottle, one thought swirling toward the forefront of my mind. “But I’m a better shot.”
“We’re gonna need all the help we can get here,” Koepke said. “Any way you can get a sight?”
I was tired. I just wanted to lie down and sleep for a week. I didn’t want to fight anymore. And I didn’t want to kill any more people.
I sighed. “What are they doing right now?”
I took another long swig of water while he answered.
“I can’t see them. I’d guess they’re making a plan for attack. It’s what I’d be doing.”
I finished the water and tossed the bottle aside. I actually felt a little better. With the water in it, my stomach was much less upset, and the nausea faded to manageable. I hoped I didn’t hork up everything I just drank.
“And our plan of attack?” I asked.
“It has to be defensive,” Koepke answered. “Offense is too risky.”
“So we just wait for them to come to us?”
“Basically.”
“I need your spot.”
I struggled to my knees. Leaning against the SUV with my left arm, I shuffled toward the back of it, the mud pulling at my jeans. I couldn’t help but notice the dark red smear I left against the white paint, not completely washed away by the heavy rain.
“Here they come,” Koepke said as I started around the back of the car.
Koepke and Ellmann both fired. The bad guys returned fire. I realized Koepke couldn’t move now.
Moving away from the SUV, I struggled forward, very unbalanced on my own. Coming up beside Koepke, I was panting, sweating. I paused to catch my breath.
The bullets peppered both SUVs and pounded into the ground near our knees. I wasn’t going to get any stronger. If I was going to make a play, it needed to be now.
I raised the gun and leaned around Koepke. I saw the eight of them had come around a Ford Explorer and formed a line, moving forward, side by side. They all had their ski masks back on, and the differences in mass and height were the only things distinguishable now. They were difficult to see through the heavy rain. The headlights did little to illuminate the scene. What gave them away was the muzzle flare of their guns.
I aimed for the one on the far right and fired. The bullet struck, and he went down. My arm was shaking from fatigue as I lined up the next shot. I noticed Koepke hesitate for half a second.
It was equal measures luck and skill. Maybe what Ellmann said about me having an overabundance of both had merit. Plus, I’d had a lot of practice, starting at a young age. I didn’t stop to explain any of this to Koepke, however.
I pulled the trigger again, and one on Ellmann’s end staggered back and fell. I saw him practically bounce off the ground, back onto his feet. I swung my gun left and fired. This time when he fell, he didn’t get up.
Koepke fired off the last of his magazine, hitting one in the shoulder, then dropped back to reload. I aimed at another and fired, the bullet flying harmlessly past the person and landing in the mud beyond. My arm was dropping; I was too weak to hold it up. What I needed was another shot of adrenaline.
As if in answer, the remaining shooters focused on me. A spray of bullets whizzed past my head, one so close it grazed my temple. I dropped back, and the shots struck the ground just behind me, mud spraying up with each. Now my heart was hammering, and I felt another dose of adrenaline dump into my bloodstream. The open wound on my temple burned from exposu
re and the heat of the bullet. That bullet had been too close.
From the other side of the SUV, I heard a grunt of pain. Ellmann had been hit. I heard one of the bad guys say, “There! Go!”
I shot up onto my knees again and leaned around the SUV, aiming the gun. I went left, picking off the one running forward to finish off Ellmann. I squeezed the trigger, and the figure fell forward, splashing into the mud. The bullets were already flying my way again. Once Koepke had reloaded his gun, he leaned out and resumed the fight, his fire helping to ward off some of what was being directed at us—at me.
“Ellmann!” I called.
I didn’t know how injured Ellmann was, or if he could defend himself any longer. I lined up my next shot, trying my best to ignore the ones fired at me, and pulled the trigger. The figure went down. Another shot made it permanent.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the remaining three fall. The figure dropped to his or her knees, gun still raised. Koepke fired again. The figure fell back, the gun spashing into the mud.
“Ellmann!”
Panic closed in around me until I finally heard a reply from the other end of the car.
“I’m fine!”
Relief washed through me just as a white-hot pain exploded in my right thigh, the fire rushing over my leg and pelvis. My shot went wide, hitting an arm. I fired again, this time my aim true.
“Son of a bitch!” I cried at the last guy standing. “I’m tired of getting shot!”
He was moving forward quickly, his gun held in front of him by both hands, his aim better than any of the others’. And he had not stopped firing for my outburst. I was certain this was Pratt.
His fire had driven both Koepke and me back behind the SUV. I could hear the slosh of his boots in the mud over the report of the gun and knew he was close. Koepke and I were both kneeling. He’d been aiming low.
My last idea hit. I threw myself at the bumper of the SUV and struggled to get to my feet, groaning at the effort. I could feel each second tick by as I strained, my strength beyond drained. Then it was as if everything was in slow motion. Each footstep squished in a prolonged sound. Each gunshot was drawn out.
The Trouble With Murder Page 33