Wounded Prey

by Sean Lynch

  In reply, Farrell heard a low moan followed by several sharp gasps. He went inside, bringing his weapon up in the same motion.

  He was startled to find a man at his feet and almost shot him unintentionally. The man was crawling towards the door. Even in the poor light he recognized the Slocum family resemblance. Cole’s feet were loosely bound, and one side of his face was caked in blood from a gash on his head. A blood-red circle surrounded his neck. He tried to speak.

  Farrell knelt beside him and put his left hand on Cole’s shoulder. He was careful to keep his right hand directing the revolver at the darkness of the house’s interior. Cole struggled for words.

  “My daughter… He’s got Kirsten… my daughter,” Cole said in a hoarse whisper. The injury to his neck was impeding his speech.

  “Vernon’s got your daughter?”

  Farrell knew the answer to the question before he asked it. Cole nodded vigorously in reply.

  At his own mention of the name, Farrell felt his body chill. He pressed Cole for more information.

  “Is Kevin here? Did Kevin come in?” Then he realized Cole couldn’t know who “Kevin” was. He rephrased the query.

  “Good looking kid about twenty-five? Military cut hair? Did he come in here?”

  Cole’s eyes widened to an anguished gaze, and tears streamed down his face from his effort to speak. All Farrell heard was “…over there,” as Cole motioned with his head into the darkness of the house. Farrell’s eyes were only just beginning to adjust from the brighter streetlamps outside. He peered into the void.

  “Stay here,” Farrell said in a voice which didn’t contain his tension. He stood and began to move slowly into Cole Ballantine’s house. His revolver was held at the ready, the adrenaline coursing through his body.

  “Kevin?” he called softly into the blackness. “Kevin, can you hear me?”

  As if in answer to his challenge, a dim shape began to form itself in the dark. As he moved towards it, he realized it was a staircase. Another shape loomed on the ground in front of the staircase. This one was formless and vague. Farrell focused his aim at the shape and drew closer.

  “Kevin, is that you?”

  Suddenly the amorphous shape took form, and Farrell uttered an involuntary gasp. Lying at the base of the stairs, face up, was Kevin Kearns. His eyes were closed and a revolver was in his hand. The reason Farrell was initially unable to discern his outline in the dark was because of the pool of blood emanating from his torso. The blood trail led up the stairs into even greater darkness.

  He knelt next to Kearns and checked his wrist, hoping for a pulse. The hand was warm. Farrell lifted Kearns’ coat and found the wound. He pressed his handkerchief against the puncture, and leaned his cheek against Kearns’ nose and mouth, trying to feel respiration. All he could feel was the thumping of his own heart. He couldn’t tell if Kearns was breathing, or if he was just too amped to feel it on his own sweating face.

  Farrell wiped his nose and shook his head. He reached down and took Kearns’ revolver from his fingers. Next he patted the coat pockets. He located Kearns’ wallet, the envelope of cash he’d given the deputy, and the other FBI revolver. Tucking these into his own pockets, he looked down at his partner and friend. He had to find the phone and summon medical help. Looking around, he began to stand up.

  Farrell sensed motion at the top of the stairs. From his squatting position he leaped backwards with an explosive push of his legs.

  Just in time.

  As Farrell propelled himself blindly backwards, he saw muzzle flashes at the top of the stairs and heard thunder. Bullets rained down on where he’d knelt only an instant before. In the lightning flashes he saw Vernon Slocum, an apparition of evil, leering at him over the sights of his pistol.

  Farrell landed on his back and rolled. He couldn’t tell where the shots were striking, but could feel the vibration from their impact on the floor. There were seven, maybe eight shots. He brought up his weapon to where the muzzle flashes originated, and fired until his revolver clicked empty.

  Farrell jumped to his feet and ran in the darkness until he struck a wall. Putting his back against it, he slid until he found a doorway. He crashed into furniture, lamps, and a small table. Ignoring these distractions, he put his empty revolver into his waistband and drew the other .357 from his coat pocket.

  He ducked into the room and waited in silence, listening. The house was noiseless except for the staccato thumping of his racing heart. Farrell mentally kicked himself for failing to bring the shotgun.

  He tucked Kearns’ revolver into his waistband and withdrew his empty one. He reloaded it with five fresh .38 cartridges from his pocket.

  “Gonna get you,” came the voice of evil from somewhere in the darkness. “I’m coming. Gonna do you like I did your friend.” Farrell heard the sound of a magazine being inserted into the well of a pistol, and the unmistakable snick of the slide racking forward.

  Rage welled in him; an anger deep and powerful. He took a breath and forced himself to calm down. Slocum wanted him seeing red, and thinking with his gut instead of his head. He had to stay cool or Slocum would get him, too.

  “Fuck you!” he retorted, throwing himself to the floor.

  Farrell realized Slocum was baiting him to give away his position. He’d complied, risking Slocum’s fire for the same reason.

  As expected, another volley of shots rang out; four of them. At least two hit near enough to where Farrell had been to sprinkle him with plaster chips as they tore through the walls.

  But Farrell had already moved. And by firing, Slocum gave away his own position.

  Farrell had him.

  He peered around the edge of the door and could clearly see Vernon standing halfway down the stairs. He wore an ill-fitting suit and was leaning heavily on the handrail of the stairs, his knife in his teeth. Farrell took careful aim and started to squeeze the trigger.

  Suddenly a hand grabbed his revolver and pushed it down. At the same time a hoarse voice yelled, “No! My daughter! She’s upstairs! You’ll hit her!”

  Cole crashed into Farrell, and both fell to the floor. Farrell was focusing so intently on Slocum he had tunnel vision, and didn’t notice Cole crawling towards him from the darkness of the front room.

  He struggled frantically with Cole, his gun hand gripped by both of Cole’s. Farrell knew Slocum would be moving forward to shoot them both point-blank as they lay writhing on the ground.

  “Let go you fucking idiot!” Farrell hissed. He struggled to free his gun from Cole’s grasp.

  “No! You’ll hit Kirsten!”

  Farrell hammered Cole’s face with his left fist, then his elbow. He felt the grip on his gun loosen, and he wrenched it free. He slammed the revolver down hard on Cole’s head until Cole went limp.

  Farrell wriggled from under the larger man and stood up. He was gasping for air from the struggle, his legs trembling from exertion, and for a moment thought he might pass out. More light entered the house, and he heard the sound of scuffling feet. The sound and light were coming from the front door.

  Acutely aware of the possibility this was another ruse by Slocum to draw him into the open, Farrell nonetheless ran towards the door. He couldn’t risk losing Slocum again.

  No shots came. Instead, as he reached the front door, he saw something he didn’t expect.

  Vernon Slocum was hobbling along the sidewalk with his back towards Farrell. Even as Farrell raised his gun to shoot, he knew he couldn’t.

  Over Slocum’s shoulder, covering his broad back, hung a little girl. Her long auburn hair flowed down past his waist. There was little chance Farrell could fire and not hit the child. His hands were shaking so badly he knew a precision shot was impossible. Especially with a .38 sporting a two-inch barrel, in the dark, at a moving target with a hostage. Yet if he didn’t fire, Slocum would escape. The big former Marine was almost at the door of the red Camaro.

  “Stop!” Farrell yelled. “Stop right there, you son of a bitch!”


  Slocum ignored the command and opened the driver’s door of the sports car. He tossed the little girl inside. Farrell staggered after him, trying in vain to regain his breath. He then realized in horror he was caught in the open. Instead of following the girl into the car, Slocum whirled and fired.

  Farrell saw Slocum pivot and reacted, throwing himself clumsily to the sidewalk. The first two rounds went wild; the third landed dangerously close. It struck the pavement inches from Farrell’s sprawled body. Fortunately there were no more. The slide of Slocum’s .45 locked back, his pistol empty. Farrell remembered the big man expended at least four rounds in the house during his second volley.

  Farrell lumbered to his feet and brought his revolver up. Slocum had ducked into the Chevrolet. Farrell lurched towards the Camaro. His only hope was to somehow get a shot at Slocum through the windshield without hitting the girl.

  But by the time Farrell reached the Camaro it was in gear and screeching away down Seaview Parkway.

  Farrell didn’t hesitate. He ran to the Oldsmobile on legs of rubber. He got the Olds into gear as the taillights of the Camaro rounded the corner ahead.

  Farrell pressed the accelerator to the floor, the Oldsmobile racing after Slocum. He cursed himself for not risking a shot at the murderer. He knew if Slocum got away, Cole Ballantine’s little girl would end up hanging from a tree.

  Slocum was driving his vehicle at breakneck speed, and Farrell floored his accelerator keeping up. His heart was pounding so loudly in his chest he thought it was going to pop out, and the roar in his ears was not entirely from the Oldsmobile’s shrieking engine.

  Slocum veered onto Bridgeway, a two-lane road that was luckily devoid of traffic. As the Camaro ran through the red lights at the intersection at Island Drive, two Alameda police cars, no doubt en route to the many calls being received from Cole Ballantine’s terrified neighbors, passed the racing cars. Correctly surmising the two fleeing cars were possibly involved in the reported gunfight on Seaview Parkway, both police officers made hasty U-turns to follow.

  Farrell heard the sirens as he passed the cops, heading east on Island Drive after Slocum. Slocum fishtailed and turned onto Maitland Drive, nearly losing control. Farrell didn’t brake, but instead took his foot off the gas and eased into the turn. When the Oldsmobile straightened out, Farrell took a moment to ensure his revolvers were still in his coat. In a collision, which he thought likely, the guns could be tossed about in the car and lost. He needed them close at hand.

  Maitland Drive was a narrow residential street, and as Farrell pursued the red car ahead of him, he was conscious of how deadly it would be for a vehicle to emerge from one of the many driveways. Not only would it probably kill him and the other car’s hapless driver, it would result in the eventual death of the young hostage in Slocum’s car.

  Farrell gritted his teeth. He felt a burst of adrenaline, or anger, or hate, or all three, and noticed with some satisfaction that his breathing was evening out and his hands steadying. If he got close enough, he would ram the Camaro. The child in the car might have a chance of surviving the collision, even at high speed. If Slocum got away however, her chances were nil.

  The police cars fell behind in the distance. Farrell ignored his rearview mirror and focused on following the car ahead.

  Slocum’s car made a two-wheeled left onto eastbound Harbor Bay Parkway. The Parkway was four-lane, and Farrell closed the distance by smoothing his own turn and avoiding the fishtail. He pulled adjacent to the sports car. He saw Slocum reach down below the seat with one hand.

  Farrell guessed what the big man was reaching for. In the next instant, a sawed-off shotgun was held across Slocum’s chest. The dual eyes of its twin-barrels pointed directly at Farrell.

  Farrell had two options.

  He could slam on the brakes. Even if he didn’t crash, he would lose Slocum, unable to regain the distance the Camaro would cover in the meantime. Oakland was less than two miles ahead. Once Slocum reached metropolitan traffic, Farrell would undoubtedly lose him.

  Or he could ram the Camaro.

  To Bob Farrell, there was only one choice.

  With a grimace he jerked the steering wheel sharply right, just as the mouth of the sawed-off shotgun erupted flame. The windshield disappeared in a shower of flying glass and the Oldsmobile sideswiped Slocum’s Camaro at better than ninety miles an hour. With a grinding crunch of metal both cars met and deflected, each careering in separate directions.

  Farrell’s sedan skidded sideways until it hit the median, where it threatened to roll but did not. The Olds bounced off the median and slid to a halt.

  Farrell shook his head, dazed but largely unhurt. His face was cut by chips of flying windshield, and he was stunned by the impact, but he was otherwise alright. He regained his senses and left the car. He ran towards the Camaro, which lay on its roof in the ditch along Harbor Bay Parkway.

  They’d almost reached Doolittle Drive when Farrell rammed Slocum. The red sports car veered into the ditch after the initial impact with the Oldsmobile. Once in the ditch, the Camaro toppled end-over-end until coming to rest on its roof. It lay enmeshed in a row of cypress trees.

  Farrell drew one of the FBI revolvers with a hand no longer trembling. He ran, as best he could, to the upended car. He hoped to catch Slocum stunned in the driver’s seat and finish him point blank.

  Farrell was twenty yards from the overturned Camaro when Slocum stood up. He’d crawled through the driver’s window and was wielding his shotgun and pistol. He was battered and bleeding, and wore an expression of savage fury. Farrell couldn’t see the girl, and prayed she wasn’t thrown from the car when it rolled. His eyes locked with Slocum’s, and he thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in the brutal face.

  Farrell slowed to a walk, making a conscious effort to calm his breathing. He raised his right hand and fired a hasty shot. He heard the bullet tink into the body of the Camaro, and hoped if he couldn’t hit Slocum, at least he could suppress return fire. Farrell walked more resolutely with each step. He fired at regular intervals.

  He couldn’t tell if he was hitting the big former Marine, but if not, the shots were close. Slocum ducked behind the engine block of the overturned Camaro and out of sight.

  Farrell emptied the first revolver and switched it to his left hand, hefting the loaded one in his right. With Slocum out of sight he no longer had a target, but kept the Smith & Wesson pointed at where he’d last seen the killer.

  By the time he reached the edge of the ditch the sirens were growing louder. The cops had displayed more prudence in their driving than he and Slocum had. They had more to lose.

  Farrell looked over the edge of the ditch with no concern for cover. He was again out of breath, and blood was trickling down his face. He wasn’t sure how badly Slocum was hurt, nor did he care. The Alameda police would arrive in a few seconds, and Farrell had no time for hide-and-seek. He had to find Slocum, and fast.

  But Slocum was not behind the Camaro when Farrell reached it. All he found was blood splattered on the windshield where Slocum had been, a lot of it, and the sawed-off shotgun discarded on the ground. Farrell searched for his adversary and found him.

  Slocum hadn’t merely ducked behind the car when Farrell fired. He crouched below Farrell’s line of sight and fled in the ditch. Farrell could see Slocum running in a limping gait, fifty yards away. He took aim, but knew a shot would be futile.

  He looked over his shoulder. The wailing sirens of the police cars were shrill now, and their flashing emergency lights were visible at Maitland Drive only a mile back. He ran quickly to the other side of the wrecked Chevrolet.

  Inside, laying face down, was the little girl. He knew he couldn’t open the twisted car door, so he kicked out the passenger window and reached in for her. He pulled her out of the car and checked her for signs of life.

  The girl’s eyes were closed, but she was breathing. Farrell felt a steady, strong pulse on her neck. She was wearing abrasions on her knees and elbows
, but otherwise seemed unhurt. He noticed a purple bruise on her forehead, and surmised that Slocum kept the child quieted with a blow.

  Thankfully, the girl was alive. He carried the child away from the demolished car in case it caught fire, and laid her gently on the soft grass. Smoothing her hair from her face, Farrell smiled. Slocum didn’t get this one. Kearns would have been proud.

  Two police cars screeched to a halt near the Oldsmobile. Leaving the girl, Farrell ducked down in the ditch as Slocum had done, and crawled parallel to where the police cars were parked. He knew from his own police experience that the glare from their vehicle’s emergency lights and spotlights would conceal him. A uniformed cop emerged from each car. One held a shotgun, the other a revolver. The police cars had their engines running and flashing lights on, but the sirens were now quiet.

  The two cops approached the Oldsmobile cautiously. When they found no one inside, they moved towards the overturned Camaro in the ditch with weapons pointed. Farrell was now well behind them, and behind their hastily dismounted police sedans.

  One of the cops called to his partner when he spotted the Ballantine girl lying on the ground. He ran to the girl, made a quick examination, and spoke into his portable radio. The cop with the shotgun looked inside the crunched Camaro.

  Farrell knew it was now or never. Both police officers had their attention focused on things other than behind them. He flanked them, crept out of the ditch, and darted unnoticed to the first patrol car. He removed the keys from the ignition. He duck-walked to the second police car, below the line of sight. That vehicle still had its shotgun in the electro-lock on the dashboard. It was the same model of lock used by the SFPD.

  Farrell depressed the release mechanism on the floor and took the shotgun, a standard police Remington 870, from its mount. He then shut down the ignition and took the keys.

  Both cops heard the sudden quiet of the car’s engine being turned off. They turned to look behind them just as Farrell racked a round into the chamber of the 12-gauge.