Siege Fall (Siege of New Hampshire Book 2)

by Mic Roland

  “We know that, son.” Burgh’s voice sounded tense. “Keep this channel clear.”

  “Man!” Charles paced in exasperation. “If they storm the house, there will be bullets flying everywhere.”

  “Maybe your aunt and uncle got into a safe room or something before the hoods got into the house,” Martin offered.

  “They don’t have a safe room.” Charles flailed his arms. “They think everybody should love everybody.”

  “Go, go, go!” Burgh shouted into his radio.

  Waves of gunfire erupted. It was hard to distinguish individual shots.

  “Bell. Get ready too….No. Behind you. Get down. Down, down.”

  “Stockman,” said Burgh. “The four in Fenton’s house made a break for it while we were breaking into Kendalls’. Repeat. Suspects in car, coming your way. Get ready.”

  Martin could feel a tingle of fear ripple up his back and across his shoulders. Trouble was speeding toward him. Charles was back across the road and positioned low behind the rock wall. Martin hunkered down beside the tree. He looked through his sights at the road.

  The loud, raspy exhaust note of an approaching tuner sent a fresh tickle of fear across his shoulders. He tried to ignore it and concentrate on his front sight. The dark blue Mitsubishi seemed to be galloping as it sped over the undulating old highway. They looked like they were doing over a hundred. The driver must have suddenly spotted Martin’s truck across the road. He stabbed on the brakes, sending blue smoke trailing behind the tricked out Lancer.

  At first, it looked like he was going to try to go around Martin’s truck, but changed his mind. He may have seen the big rocks. The passengers fired a few shots wildly out their windows. The driver attempted a wide U-turn, but once the back end of the Lancer was off the pavement, the rear tires skidded, sending up a spray of dirt and grass.

  The car slid sideways for a dozen yards. As it slowed, Martin sensed an opportunity. He could not make out anyone inside the car, due to the glare on the windshield, so he aimed at the Lancer’s front wheel that was face-on to him and not turning since the driver had the brakes locked up.

  Martin aimed at the sidewalls. He squeezed off a shot, quickly got the muzzle centered again and fired off two more. The front tire deflated rapidly. More shots came from the Lancer. The skid was nearly played out. The Lancer settled low in front as the tire deflated. The driver gunned the engine, trying to get them out of the crossfire. Martin fired two more shots into the tire. Between the holes and the acceleration, the tire began to shred. The Lancer shifted and swayed, but made slow forward progress on the spinning rim.

  The driver abandoned his maneuver and got out. He fired over the top of the car, one-handed. The look on the young hoodlum’s face was desperate defiance. The back seat passenger had his window down, firing at Charles. Martin could never get a good look at the man in the back seat, so he sighted at the door, about where he imagined the gunman’s chest would be. He sent off two more rounds. Nick fired at the driver.

  Martin’s gun jammed. Misfeed. Leaning back against the tree, he quickly dropped the magazine and racked the bolt. The jam fell clear. He popped in a fresh magazine. The back seat gunman was now firing at Martin. Splinters of bark raked across Martin’s head. Nick fired. Martin took a quick peek from the other side of the tree. The gunman was aiming at Nick’s position. One of Nick’s shots hit the front passenger window, sending a spray of glass into the car. Martin peeled off three more rounds into the door. The gunman sank down out of sight.

  Was he hurt? Killed? Reloading? Martin glanced at the other gunmen. The driver was no longer visible. Was he down? The other backseat man was still shooting over the top of the car. Nick moved further right along the wall to get a better vantage point. More shots cracked through the air.

  Then, silence.

  Martin looked at Nick, who shrugged. Martin could not see Tyler or Charles. Were they hit?

  “Everybody okay?” shouted Tyler.

  “We’re both okay on this side,” Martin shouted back.

  “Two down behind the car,” shouted Tyler. “Nick, come way around and cover me while I check them.”

  Nick jumped over his wall and ran forward in a wide arc. He kept his rifle at his shoulder and eye to the sights. He stood several paces away, sighting on fallen bodies Martin could not see.

  “All quiet. We’re clearing the house, room by room,” crackled the radio.

  “We stopped the ones who ran,” Martin radioed back. “Checking them now.”

  “Roger Stockman.”

  “These two are dead,” shouted Tyler.

  “I’m coming out,” shouted Charles. “Cover me.”

  “Ready!” Martin shouted back.

  Martin kept his front sight on the passenger-side windows for any sign of movement above the sill. He had the trigger squeezed to near the break point. In the flurry of the first round of shooting, there was no time to think about anything. With the pause, there was time for anticipation to crank up the adrenaline. He tried to slow down his breathing, but his lungs ignored him. His heart throbbed.

  Charles stepped over the rock wall, pistol at full extension.

  “Count nine down. All nine down. Searching house,” said Burgh

  Charles approached the car crouched low and in half steps: his 1911 extended in front of him. Martin moved to stand 45 degrees off Charles’ right. Charles could fling open the rear door and stay flat along the car. Martin would have a clear view — and shot — inside, if necessary.

  In the brief break in the action, Martin tried to take inventory. He saw the driver get out and shoot. He saw the left-side back seat man get out. Martin did not see either of them go down, but Tyler reported two down and dead. Martin saw the right-side back seat man shooting out his window and maybe saw him go down.

  Burgh said there were four. The front passenger window was up. It was just a jagged ring of white glitter now, but Martin could not recall seeing anyone in the front seat — firing, or otherwise. Was there someone still lurking up there? Martin kept an eye on the hole in the glass too.

  “Ready?” Charles asked without looking away from his sights.

  “Careful of the front seat,” answered Martin. “I haven’t seen the fourth one. Ready.”

  Charles reached for the door handle with one hand, the 1911 in his other hand. He yanked the door open and jumped back along the car’s rear quarter.

  It was hard to make out any details in the dark interior. A motionless mass lay across the seats.

  “I’m gonna pull him out,” said Charles. “Keep a bead on him.”

  Martin nodded. Charles stepped forward and reached low in the open car. He grabbed a hightop sneaker and pulled. He backed up, dragging the inert man clear of the car. The man’s gray and blue hoodie was wet with dark blood. The half-opened eyes and slack jaw told of death. Martin realized the man was probably dead from his shots. He expected to feel horrified, but was not. It all seemed so matter-of-fact. What lay before him was more of a target than a man. It was a disconcerting feeling.

  “Hey, no shoot, man,” came a voice from the front seat.

  Charles jumped back to the rear quarter of the car. His gun was trained on the rear door opening. “Come out slow,” shouted Charles.

  “I can’t open the door,” said the voice. “My arm’s all shot up.”

  Charles looked at Martin. Martin nodded that he understood. He put the carbine’s sights on the front window. Charles closed the rear door. Crouching very low, so as to not be visible, he reached forward for the door handle, paused, then flung the front door open.

  A skinny young man wearing a shabby Utah Jazz hoodie clambered awkwardly out of the car. His right arm had been hit in two places. His left hand was cut up and bloody. Despite that, he tried to raise his hands above his head.

  Charles approached carefully from his side. Martin kept his sights on the young man’s chest. Charles patted him down with his free hand. He pulled small pistol from his waistband, a knife f
rom the hoodie pocket and a magazine from a rear jeans pocket.

  The wounds on the man’s arm, and the single bullet hole in the side of the door, suggested the man had been bent forward, with his arms over his head during the shootout. The bullet fragmented after hitting the door and mechanisms within, spraying the man with shrapnel. Martin wondered what they would do with their prisoner now. The other three hoodlums were easier. They would be thrown in the trench.

  “We found the Kendalls,” hissed the radio. “Afraid they’re both dead.”

  “WHAT?” shouted Charles. He grabbed the young hoodlum by a handful of hoodie neckline. He held his pistol to the man’s head. “You killed my family!”

  “Don’t!” shouted Martin.

  “They killed my family. I’m gonna kill them!”

  The young man’s mouth trembled, eyes shut tight, waiting for the blast that would end his life.

  “You can’t just shoot him,” said Martin. He remembered Burgh saying the four fled from the first house, not the Kendall’s house. The prisoner could be guilty of many other crimes, but not that of killing Charles’ relatives. “He surrendered. He’s our prisoner.”

  “So what? Less work for everyone to just kill him and be done.”

  This was a very dark line Charles wanted to cross. “Remember back in the horse trailer, you were telling me about your tour in Bosnia? You found all those dead Bosnians in that building. Remember?” It was a thin thread, but Martin was encouraged that Charles was arguing with him instead of simply killing the young man. That suggested an inner conflict that Martin might appeal to.

  Charles was not answering, so Martin continued. “The Serbs took them prisoner, then just shot them. That Serb you captured later, what did he tell you?”

  Charles looked angry at remembering.

  “What did the Serb tell you?” repeated Martin louder.

  “He said prisoners are too much work,” Charles snapped. “Why do you care about this scum?”

  “I don’t care about him,” said Martin. “I care about us. We can’t just do whatever we feel like. Once we start killing people because we’re angry, or they’re too much trouble, where does that end?”

  “Times are different now,” insisted Charles. “Everything is falling apart. There is no law.”

  “Law only exists if we choose to keep it alive,” said Martin. “If we act without law, then there is no law. Everything will go completely to hell. We’ll be no different than them — throwing away everything you said mattered.”

  Martin could see Charles’ gun back away from the young man’s head just a fraction of an inch. Charles face was contorted with rage, but his eyes were looking a thousand miles away.

  Charles shook off the memories. He pushed the gun back into the man’s temple. “If my father was here, he would have shot this scumbag without a second thought.”

  Tyler had slowly moved around behind Charles. “You hated everything about dad,” said Tyler solemnly. “Now you want to be like him?”

  Charles twisted his head away, as if to resist the words and the memories. In the distance, the police car’s siren began to wail. Chief Burgh was coming their way.

  “Damn…everything!” Charles shouted. He pistol-whipped the young man, who collapsed to his knees. Charles started kicking out one of the Lancer’s tail lights.

  “He’ll be okay…in awhile,” Tyler said quietly. “We took some losses, but we stopped a pretty major threat from outside.”

  “We did.” Martin nodded. “Let’s pray we can hold things together on the inside too.”

  Chapter 18: Return Home

  Chief Burgh guided the handcuffed gang member into the back seat of his cruiser and closed the door. “Well now. What are we going to do with all this mess, eh? Not like we can call for an ambulance…or the Examiner’s office.”

  “I say we hang their bodies from the trees along the road here,” Charles said, with grim enthusiasm. “And maybe burn their car along side the road here. It’d be a big warning to any other thugs who come along.”

  Martin winced. The Vlad-the-Impaler technique. It might be intimidating with thousands of dead Turks on stakes, but three dead hoodlums? It would probably be more of an instigation.

  “What would you do,” Martin asked Charles, “If on the way to Manchester, you saw three dead people from Cheshire, hanging from the trees?”

  Charles face set into a dark glare. “I’d hunt those scum down. The first thing I’d do is…” His glare faded. His eyes darted around as he ran the ramifications.

  “What if we just made them all disappear?” Martin asked.

  “What, like throw the bodies in a pit and pretend they were never here?” asked Tyler.

  “Kind of,” said Martin. “Oh sure, maybe we take something for ID on the dead guys, just for record keeping, but yeah, dump ‘em in the pit. No eulogies for these guys. But then, what if we clean all this up, like they were never here? No bodies. No shot-up car to find. No shell casings. No proof. That way, if any of their buddies come looking for them, there’s no clue to what happened to them.”

  “But the rest of their gang will know where they were going,” protested Charles.

  “Sure,” said Martin, “but they won’t know if they actually got here. Maybe they never got to Cheshire. Maybe they took some loot and split with it. Maybe they attacked a different town. The guys who come looking for them won’t have any idea.”

  “You mean, like Amelia Earhart?” asked Burgh. “That the Japanese shot her down and tortured her as a spy in that Saipan prison?”

  Martin stared for a moment at the high fly ball to left field. “Um…yeah.” He caught it, and threw to home. “Imagine the outrage if people did find her crashed plane, all shot up.”

  “Boy howdy, there’d be hell to pay,” said Burgh with a nod.

  “Right. But no one ever found anything, so there’s no one to be angry with.”

  “Well then,” said Burgh. “We’ve got a lot to do. These clowns won’t be missed for a few hours at least. Better get to work. I’ll take the prisoner to the holding cell. Let’s get these bodies loaded into the back of your truck. Bring them up to town hall. I’ll look for ID and photograph them. Then we can take ‘em up to the trench.”

  “What about the car?” asked Nick. “Should we try to push it behind one of these houses?”

  “No,” Burgh stroked his chin. “It needs to disappear too. Got a tow strap or some chains, Martin?”

  “A tow strap,” Martin said. “But we’ll have to change out that front tire if I’m going to tow it.”

  “I’ll get on that.” Nick bounced off eagerly. He found the keys still in the ignition, and popped open the trunk. “Hey, there’s a bunch of food and stuff back here.”

  Burgh peered in the trunk. “Looted from the houses. Help me get this into the cruiser. I’ll try to get it back to the people they stole it from.”

  The other three men lifted each of the dead men from the pavement and carried them to Martin’s truck. Their bodies seemed heavy and extra-limp, as if they had no bones. Their skin was getting cool and clammy. More than once, Martin could feel his grip slipping and had to clutch the body close in order to get it hefted onto the tailgate.

  Martin tried not to think of the bodies as dead people, one of whom he was certain he had killed. He wanted to think of the bodies as ultra-realistic mannequins for paramedic training. Yet, his mind could not lock on that notion. The tall dead hoodlum: his mother was probably happy to see her young son growing tall and strong. He probably loved his mother and remembered fondly when she comforted him over a skinned knee. When did the heart of that boy turn dark? Was he young when the gang ethos replaced his mother’s love?

  The stocky hoodlum was a challenging load to carry. He had multiple wounds and, apparently, bled out. His body was particularly slippery. He could have been a football player, if he had been in high school. Was there a father, a brother, a coach, all hoping the stocky young man would put his energy into th
e game instead of the streets? Martin had to shake off such thoughts. It was mentally draining.

  “This is what they had on them,” Tyler said. He laid onto the tailgate, the weapons found in the car, the road and the bodies. “A Kel-Tec P-32. A Smith & Wesson .40: two mags. A Hi-Point 9, two mags, and a Bersa 380, one extra mag. They were all empty except the Kel-Tec. I found some ammo boxes, half empty.”

  “I’ll take the .40,” said Charles. He wiped the blood off the magazines before pushing them into his pocket.

  “Guess I’ll take the Hi-Point,” Martin said. “Might as well have some magazines and parts for the one I have.”

  “Could I have the Bersa?” Nick asked. “That could be good for my son.” Tyler nodded.