Cold Land: A Mystery Thriller

by John Oakes

  Now Jake could see between the main house and the shop, right down the wide bark-covered driveway to where at least three police cruisers sat a good four or five hundred feet away from his cover.

  The gunfire went silent for a moment as both sides tried to assess what had just happened.

  The squat gunman who’d been under the trailer with Rudy thought to run after the semi truck, then saw Jerry, who leveled his gun and told the man to drop his weapon. The man didn’t stop running or drop his weapon. He just made a comically wide-eyed u-turn and skirted the brush, checking over his shoulder for Jerry.

  Jake glanced at the shop door, scanning for threats, then stepped out at just the right moment and buried his shoulder into the man’s gut like a pissed off linebacker taking down a rival team’s running back. The man slammed back into the cold, wet ground, making a mewing sound with his eyes crossed. Before he regained his breathing and sight, Jake had the man cuffed around one hand and dragged him back into cover. He drew the squat man’s thick arms tight around the base of a multi-stemmed bush growing up next to a young but sturdy tree, and cuffed the other hand tight.

  The man kicked his feet and flopped like a fish on his belly, his face pressed into the trunk of the tree. “It hurts!” he protested.

  “It’s supposed to,” Jake shot back. Jake did a cursory search of the man’s pockets, finding nothing of interest, then considered his next move. He could return to Jerry and swap notes, but had to give the veteran enough credit to know where the bad guys were and how to position himself accordingly. That was another reason for Jake to stay put, especially if his position hadn’t been discovered yet. Jake sat back on a knee and loaded three rounds into his revolver to replace his spent shells. He then double-checked his pocket, counting off the seven rounds he had left.

  Surveying the scene, he noticed that Kenny had disappeared from the side of the shop, probably having crawled inside. The only loose piece on the board was the remaining twin, Randy. He’d worked his cuffs under his feet to his front side and was kneeling over his dead brother. Rudy had been the smarter and more cautious of the two brothers, and if he’d let Sarah Paulsen drag them into this, there was no telling what Randy would do, especially now with revenge on his mind. Jake wanted to run to him and drag him back to Nelson and the cruiser, to save him from himself. But not only would Jake have to flee his tactical position, he’d be severely exposed the whole way, dragging a man almost his size.

  Almost on cue, Randy’s attention glided over to the AR-15 on the ground beside Rudy. He looked furtively over both shoulders then grabbed the rifle, trying to find a way to hold it in his cuffed hands. The best he could do was to grip it like a pistol in both hands. He waved it around looking for a target to test himself on. Randy steadied the barrel in Jake’s direction, perhaps imagining where the fatal bullet must have originated from.

  Jake stayed stock still, eyeing the AR-15 laying three feet into the open space, the weapon that’d been held by the squat man who was now bear-hugging vegetation behind him. Randy was in pistol range, but Jake knew he’d be more accurate with the rifle while saving his .45 rounds. But with Randy eyeing the edge of the property with revenge in mind, he just couldn’t risk it.

  “Where’s Bud?” a voice called out.

  “They killed Roy.”

  “And one of the twins.”

  “Pulled the semi truck out the back road. We gotta get it.”

  As the attempted thieves regrouped in the shop, their worried exchange of news and opinions echoed out of the large metal shop over to Jake’s blind.

  “Where’s Bud?” someone asked again.

  “I’m out here! With a cop!” the squat man yelled from his spot on the ground. Jake reached back and pressed the muzzle of his .45 to the base of Bud’s scrotum, delivering a non-verbal request for silence.

  The muzzle of an AR-15 appeared out from the rear bay of the shop. It’s holder, a red-faced, thick-necked man with sandy hair, scanned ninety degrees of surroundings from the open clearing over to the escape road.

  “Bud? Where you at?”

  Jake kept his face still and his .45 pressed into Bud’s silence buttons, only moving his gaze over to Randy who was doing a similar scan of the perimeter. With both men hunting for any sign of him, if Jake gave up position to shoot at one, the other would see him and fire. He had no intention of letting two men pin him down, though, so he surmised he’d take his chances with Randy who was holding his rifle awkwardly on account of his restraints.

  Jake took aim through stalks of grass, placing the front sight of his pistol right up against the edge of the rear bay door. He squeezed the trigger nice and easy, focusing on a perfect trigger pull, not the shot itself. He felt a pleasant surprise when the gun jumped and barked like a massive dog.

  The bullet made an audible thump when it hit the gunman’s chest cavity, like a striking the head of a drum. Both man and weapon tipped sideways out of the garage door, and came to rest gently on the ground.

  Jake was up and running as soon as the gunman fell, thinking he might be able to disarm Randy while he was distracted. Sure enough, when Randy glanced back from the fallen man by the shop door to Jake, he was taken by surprise.

  “Drop it!” Jake yelled, closing on him. For a half second it appeared he would, but then the anger boiled. Randy grimaced and raised the muzzle.

  Jake fired, throwing one of Randy’s shoulders backward as the bullet passed through it. The twin looked bewildered with the impact, but still wouldn’t drop the gun. In the heated moment, Jake didn’t actually hear Randy fire the rifle, only saw the blast from the muzzle. Jake fired instantly, center of mass and Randy crumpled backward, rust-colored hair resting on his brother’s leg.

  Jake’s clomping boots came to a sliding stop where he dropped to a knee and felt for Randy’s pulse. Both brothers were gone.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Exit Strategy

  Jake looked for Jerry and found him standing near the rear of the CheapValue trailer near the thicket. “Radio the cops. Tell them we’re going in the shop,” Jake said in a smattering of hand signals. Jerry gave the “Okay” sign, and Jake dashed for the side of the shop next to the flatbed truck. He knelt beside a wheel to take cover from any potential law enforcement bullets still whipping downrange. But the shooting abated to a pot shot every minute or so.

  “Your home is surrounded,” the Iowa cops announced over their speakers. “Come out with your hands up, or you will be fired upon.”

  “We got demands!” someone shouted from inside the shop.

  Jerry emerged on the escape road again and motioned the all clear. Jake took a deep breath and approached the rear corner of the shop. He whipped around the ninety degree blind spot, leveling his .45 but found it clear of gunmen. Slowly he edged forward toward the bay door, finger moving onto the trigger. He whistled for attention, and a familiar dark-haired head popped out.

  Jake grabbed Kenny by the collar and dragged him sideways out of the shop. He lost his feet and spun onto the ground, but Jake held tight, sliding him along the wet ground. Once they were around the corner of the shop, Jake sat the rattled man against the flatbed’s rear wheel for protection. “You have a gun?”

  “I did. I don’t know where it is.”

  “You stay put or you’re a fucking dead man, you hear?”

  If Kenny needed any proof, Jake pointed to where the twins lay in the faint tire tracks leading toward the escape road.

  Kenny’s face pinched in pain and he leaned his head back against the cold metal of the wheel.

  “How many are in there.”

  “I dunno. Sarah and three of the locals.”

  “Pretty resourceful gal, eh? They’re armed I assume.”

  “Yeah, man. So I guess you really are a cop.”

  “Guess so.”

  Jerry made the crossing to the flatbed and Jake filled him in. “Should be three perps in there plus Sarah Paulsen.”

  “What’s in that shop?”

/>   Jake didn’t know. He slapped Kenny in the chest.

  “Just a bunch of automotive stuff and some other tools,” Kenny said. “Some random appliances too.”

  “Sounds like plenty of single man cover,” Jerry said. “We can leapfrog through it.”

  Jake took one centering breath again before ducking inside the shop and taking up a station behind a huge rolling tool chest. He looked around it, down the length of the shop. Then he peered around the other side, unable to see much other than a work bench with milk crates crammed underneath obstructing the view. Jerry swooped in and quietly ran past Jake, taking up position by the work bench. They continued to slingshot past one another from cover to cover until daylight hit them from the wide front entrance. Gunfire had gone silent, which oddly made it more difficult to locate the perps. The ringing in Jake’s ears left him unsure if he was hearing whispered voices.

  Jake was about to risk popping his head up for a look at the rest of the shop, when a diesel engine started ten feet away. With a big ker-clunk and the screech of old metal, another bay door opened out the back of the shop. Jake shot a glance at Jerry then ran past him the way they’d come, weaving between expensive diagnostic automotive equipment, barrels and tool stations. The big engine revved and tires rolled from concrete to dirt. Jake ran outside behind it, saw that it was a newer Dodge with a couple bullet holes in the tailgate. It came to a sudden stop near the flatbed and two men jumped out of the back, holding rifles. Jake fired twice, but they ran in slightly separate direction confusing his aim. One, an older man in a partially burnt flannel, made it around to the driver’s side of the flatbed, and the other, a thickly muscled young man, grabbed Kenny and hauled him toward the passenger door.

  Jake leaned a shoulder on the shop to steady his aim and waited for his shot to make sure he wouldn’t hit Kenny who had capitulated. The muscled man pushed Kenny into the cab, then stepped one foot up into the truck, and Jake had him alone in his sights.

  Bang.

  A cloud of red mist flew off the man’s shoulder and filled the cab, dotting the windows. The force of the impact threw him forward into the seat and Kenny held on to him as the driver punched the accelerator. The flatbed pulled forward, half loaded with unsecured pallets and pallet jacks still rolling loose on the bed. The driver edged around the twins then followed the Dodge toward the escape road.

  Jake and Jerry ran in pursuit, Jake flipping the cylinder of his pistol open and shoving fresh rounds in, then holstering it. He veered right, picked up the AR-15 near his hiding spot and fired off the entire remaining magazine at the truck and flatbed’s tires as they entered the thicket down the escape road.

  Jake threw the rifle down in frustration.

  “They can’t get far,” Jerry said. “The semi’s blocking them.”

  “Until they get to it.”

  Together they sprinted toward the road around the bend and made contact with the trucks, now stopped behind the semi.

  “They’ll go for the driver,” Jake said. “Might kill him this time.”

  The driver of the pickup waved out his window for someone to come up.

  The driver of the flatbed didn’t look eager to get out, but grudgingly handed the wheel over to Kenny. As he stepped out, shouts of pain emanated from the cab. He shut the door and jogged up toward the semi.

  Jake slid alongside the flatbed, opened the driver’s door and planted his pistol in Kenny’s face.

  “Keys. Now.”

  Kenny turned off the flat bed with a put-upon sigh and handed over the keys without making eye contact. Jake pocketed them and said, “Now hand over that man’s weapon.”

  Kenny pulled a Glock out of the moaning man’s waistband and Jake disassembled it with one hand, letting the clip and slide fall to his feet and tossing the rest of the components into the weeds. “You stay put with him until the EMT or cops come. Get some pressure on that wound. He ain’t gonna pitch for the Twins, but he won’t bleed to death if you get pressure on it.”

  Jake shut the door and locked eyes with the driver of the Dodge through his side mirror. Jake held his ground, pistol at his side. He was eager to stop the man running for the cab of the semi, but if he ran forward the driver of the pickup and or Sarah Paulsen in the passenger seat would gun him down.

  The older man who’d driven the flatbed reached the cab of the semi, climbed the step and pointed a gun inside at the driver.

  Jake raised his pistol to fire, but at the same moment, the driver of the Dodge pointed a revolver of his own out the window at Jake.

  Jake dove forward and behind the Dodge’s tailgate, not missing the irony that the truck itself was his best cover. Jake popped up and fired at the driver’s head rest, blowing out a section of the rear window and sending tufts of upholstery about the cab. But he missed the driver who put the truck in reverse and floored the accelerator, testing Jake’s theory about using it for cover.

  In his adrenaline-fueled perception, Jake saw every movement that ensued in slow motion. Jake vaulted one boot off the rear bumper of the truck and the other off the grill of the flatbed, tucking his ankles under his rear end as if he were about to cannon ball into a swimming pool. The pickup smashed into the flatbed beneath him, and he fell awkwardly, trying to stay out of the pickup, but sliding off the hood of the flatbed, right into the same problematic spot he’d just leapt from. As the pickup pulled away, he gripped the grill with his left hand, but still held the pistol in his right. He tried to keep his feet, but his knees hit the cold ground.

  The pickup shifted gears again, and the engine revved. Jake let his grip go and fell flat, cringing at the crashing metal above his head. When the truck pulled forward, Jake clamped a hand onto the frame and turned his boots to the outsides, letting the truck pull him along underneath. He holstered his pistol and held on with both hands, arching his back to keeping his rear from dragging.

  Above the noise of the truck Jake heard the semi gurgle to life and cursed to himself. The truck didn’t slow down; It sped up to ten or fifteen miles an hour. Jakes boots were catching on debris and coming off, making it difficult to slide easy and putting an awful strain on his arms. So, he walked his hands under the truck, letting the passing road pull him out the back. He grabbed the trailer hitch, flipped over and got a hand up onto the tailgate. With his two firm grips, he swung a boot up on the bumper, ready to vault himself over and put a stop to the driver.

  “Hey Jake.”

  Jake craned his head back, and there running up behind the truck was Kenny. “Sorry. It’s all for my girl.” Kenny raised an AR-15 as he ran and aimed at Jake.

  “No!” Jake let go and twisted in the air. He didn’t hear the report of the rifle, but felt the bullet ripping down his back like a red hot zipper opening his flesh. He fell on the ground, rolling to his face. Kenny jumped into the back of the moving truck which slowed to let him in.

  Jake let out a roar, as the pain in his back changed colors brilliantly in his mind from gold to magenta to green, each hue a new flavor of agony. He screeched through clenched teeth, then wiggled his fingers and toes on his left side then his toes on his right foot and his right fingers pinned underneath him. He breathed, feeling his lungs expand and contract without causing him to cough up blood.

  Apart from pain, Jake only felt the stillness of the cold air, only heard the chirping of a bird too stubborn to fly south yet for winter.

  He rolled onto his left side and felt something trickle down his right leg. At first he was afraid he’d pissed himself, but the flow was cool and raced back up his leg, meeting his pain, then down it again in a flurry.

  Jake reached back, feeling for the place where pain and the cool sensation met. What was left of his wallet hung out of the tatters of his back pocket and he held the bloody leather before his face. Inside he found a picture of Jenny. He rubbed his thumb over her face, leaving a streak of blood.

  Jake regarded his hand, and saw it had come away from his wound with a dripping sheen of blood upon it. He dr
opped the picture, rested his head back into the dirt road and looked at the cold grey sky hanging over the cold land. He contented himself to die.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Cold Truth

  The cold seemed to pour into him through his fingertips and his feet, moving up his limbs, ever closer to his vital core. Jake felt himself becoming grey like the sky, the color and life running out of him.

  He barely registered tires grinding to a stop or feet tramping up beside him. Someone knelt beside him, put their hands on him. Jake didn’t stir.

  Jerry’s face appeared above him, blocking out the dreary sky.

  “You’re hit?”

  “Yeah,” Jake whispered. “Losing blood. Can’t feel my leg.”

  “Well… I need a look.” Jerry’s hands slid under his arm and shoulder.

  “The trucks,” Jake said.

  “Shush. Turn over.”

  “I’m gonna die, Jerry. Let me die looking at her.” Jake looked down at the photo clutched in his clean hand. “Go for the trucks.”

  Jerry turned Jake on his side anyhow, examined his wounds, then rolled him all the way on his stomach.

  “Who is she?” Jerry asked.

  “My wife.” Jake sniffled, letting the tears fall and pool in the dirt, giving more of his waning warmth to the earth.

  “And where is she?” Jerry asked sternly, hands still gripping Jake’s coat.

  Jake shook his head, bowing down and grinding his face in the dirt.

  “Where is she?” Jerry asked again, giving Jake a shove.

  “I don’t know,” Jake said. He howled the words again, “I don’t know.”

  “Why, Jake?” Jerry rolled him onto his other side and grabbed his collar. “Why don’t you know?”

  “You promised you wouldn’t…”

  Jerry shook Jake. “Why don’t you know where she is?”

  “Because she’s dead.” Jake’s face crumpled and strained.

  Jerry shook him again. “Say it, Jake. Say it.”