Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” Donovan said finally.

  “Yeah,” Lofton said. Donovan noticed he was looking a little green. He wasn’t used to hard work, either, and the hangover didn’t help. “Southwest corner of the basement. Under the kitchen stairs.”

  “The whole fuckin’ thing has fallen in,” Donovan said. “She’s been crushed. We’ll be taking her out of there in pieces.”

  “She survived for a while. We both heard her. That means there has to be some kind of space under there.”

  Donovan threw his shovel down in disgust. “I need a drink of water.” They’d purchased a pallet of bottled water that was sitting in the front passenger seat of the truck. Donovan grabbed a bottle, twisted the cap off with a savage motion, and tipped it up, his foot on the running board. The water was hot from sitting in the truck cab, and gave no relief. He swished it around in his mouth to at least cut the dust, then spit it out. He looked over the hood of the truck and froze.

  A blue and white police car was cruising slowly up the street towards the house. Donovan could see two officers in the front seat. The car pulled up to a stop next to the truck. Donovan instinctively looked over at where he’d left his pistol on the seat. He reached in and shoved the gun beneath the cardboard pallet of water bottles.

  A young officer was getting out of the car, ostentatiously sliding his baton into its loop on his belt. The cop was slender and bony, the skin of his face drawn tight across his skull. He had his cap pulled down so it was hard for Donovan to see his eyes.

  “Mornin’ sir,” the cop said in a thick Tennessee drawl. He leaned on the hood of the driver’s side and looked over at Donovan. “Ever’one all right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Donovan said. “No one hurt, thank Christ. Hell of a mess to clean up, though.”

  “Yes sir,” the cop said. “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, though.”

  “What? Why?” Donovan said.

  “Area hasn’t been secured. There’s still power lines down. Maybe gas leaks. And you ain’t got a permit for debris removal.”

  “Ain’t no gas here,” Lofton said. He’d walked over, a shovel still in his hand. “Everything’s electric, and it’s shut down. I got a propane tank for the grill, but who knows where that is.”

  The cop never changed expression. “I said you need to leave, sir.”

  “Since when do I need permission to clean up my own damn property?”

  Eejit, Donovan thought. We do not need you escalating the damn situation right now. But Lofton seemed determined to do just that.

  “I need to see some I.D., sir,” the cop was telling Lofton.

  Donovan glanced over to where the butt of the gun peeked from beneath the pallet of water bottles. He could yank the pistol out, drop the cop where he stood. Taking his partner out would be a little more of a problem, but Donovan knew he was fast enough. But suppose he killed both men. What then? They’d certainly called the stop in to headquarters. The cop was looking at Lofton’s license. He looked up and noticed the backhoe parked on the adjoining lot.

  “That your backhoe, sir?” he asked.

  Lofton was looking sick. “Ah, yeah,” he said. “I mean, no. It’s, you know, rented.”

  Donovan cursed inwardly. His hand inched towards the gun. The cop stared at the backhoe. “You got the rental paperwork?”

  “Let me look,” Donovan said. He slid into the passenger seat and fumbled at the door to the glove compartment with his left hand. He crossed his right over and eased the gun out, keeping it low. He saw the cop passing by the front grille. He was coming around the truck to the passenger side. Donovan put his finger on the trigger.

  __________

  Mullethead sprang backwards, away from the woman, his mouth open and slack with surprise. Buckthorn saw to his relief that his right hand was empty. He’d laid the gun on the counter. Buckthorn saw him glance towards it.

  “Don’t make me kill you, son,” Buckthorn said in a low voice. “Because I am powerfully tempted to shoot you down, even with your hands empty.” He stepped to his right to let Wolf come up beside him, his own gun steady. “I think this here FBI agent might feel the same way.”

  “I do,” Wolf said. “So you best get the fuck down on your knees, Bubba, and put your hands behind your head.” The man didn’t move.

  “NOW, GOD DAMN IT!” Buckthorn shouted.

  At that moment, the bald man came through the door that led to the rest of the house. He was holding a 12-gauge shotgun. As he raised the weapon, both Wolf and Buckthorn swiveled and fired. Both shots went wide, the heavy slugs splintering the plywood door behind the man. It was enough to spoil his aim, however. The tight pattern of double-ought buckshot impacted in the ceiling above Buckthorn’s head. Bits of the popcorn ceiling rained down on him like snow. He fired again, but the bald man lurched backwards out the kitchen door and disappeared.

  “Look out, Tim!” Wolf called out. Buckthorn saw Mullethead turning towards him with the gun in his hand. He’d scooped it up off the counter while Buckthorn had been distracted by Baldy. The woman was between Wolf and Mullethead, spoiling his shot. The man turned towards Buckthorn, raising the gun and grinning with triumph. He had the clear shot that Buckthorn didn’t.

  __________

  When Dushane heard the shots, she began pounding the front door in frustration, caught up in a frenzy of indecision about what to do. She couldn’t get through the door, and if she ran back around the house, she’d not only be disobeying Wolf’s order, she’d probably be too late to do anything. So she did what she was most used to doing when frustrated or scared: she yelled and hit things.

  “FEDERAL AGENT!” she shouted, beating the door with the flat of one hand while holding her weapon in the other. “OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!”

  To her shock, the door actually did burst open. The bald man she’d seen earlier barreled through the opening and ran blindly into her, nearly knocking her down. He was holding a shotgun in one hand. She was pushed back, the two of them tangled together, until he shoved her away with his free hand. As she stumbled backward, she brought her gun up. When she’d recovered her balance, she was in perfect shooting stance, knees slightly bent, gripping the weapon in both hands, arms locked. Baldy was only halfway through the motion of bringing the shotgun to bear, the barrel still pointed at an angle away from her as he registered the fact that the barrel of her .40 caliber pistol was trained squarely on his center of mass.

  “Don’t move,” Dushane said in a flat, deadly voice that was so far divorced from her earlier loud bellowing that the sudden contrast shocked him into immobility. “Drop the weapon,” she said. He hesitated. “Now,” she added. He let the shotgun drop, then slip from his hand. The look on his face, however, warned her he was still calculating. It pissed her off. She just knew this lowlife wouldn’t still be trying to figure a way to take down a man.

  “On the ground, scumbag,” she growled, reaching into her pocket for a pair of zip cuffs. Baldy bent over, as if he was going to lie down on the grassy lawn. Then he made his move. He lunged straight for Dushane, reaching for her wrist with one hand while swinging a wild haymaker with the other. The fist connected with her head, and everything went dark-red for a moment.

  __________

  In the kitchen, the woman shrieked with rage. She snatched a carving knife out of a block on the kitchen counter and buried it to the hilt in Mullethead’s left shoulder.

  “Ah, FUCK!” Mullethead screamed. He didn’t drop the gun in his right hand, however; he tried to turn it on the woman. She used the knife still buried in the meat of his shoulder like a handle to turn him away from her. He let out a howl of agony.

  “Lady, get DOWN!” Buckthorn shouted. She heard him and dropped, letting go of the knife. Buckthorn’s and Wolf’s guns roared at the same time, and these shots hit home, knocking Mullethead back against the sink. They fired again and again, the impact of the bullets jerking Mullethead back upright every time he tried to fall. Finally, the sli
de popped back on Wolf’s pistol, followed by Buckthorn’s. The shocked silence that followed was broken only by the dead-weight thump of Mullethead’s body hitting the floor and the woman’s soft whimpers of terror.

  Buckthorn moved around the counter and knelt by the woman. She was curled up in the fetal position on the floor, not seeming to notice that she was lying in a slowly spreading pool of Mullethead’s blood. He reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she gave a twisting, convulsive leap that brought her to her knees, her arms wrapped around him as if she was drowning. Her voice rose in a banshee wail that trailed off into convulsive, wracking sobs. He wrapped his own free hand around her shoulders. “It’s okay,” he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster. “It’s okay.” She only cried harder. Buckthorn heard another sound, this one seeming to come from outside the house. It sounded like a woman shouting, not in fear or pain, but in what sounded like anger. He looked up at Wolf.

  “It’s Dushane,” Wolf said. “I’ll go check. You secure the hostage.”

  Even if Buckthorn had wanted to, he didn’t think he’d be able to break the woman’s grip long enough to get up. “Go,” he said to Wolf, and held the woman tighter against him.

  Wolf went.

  __________

  As the cop approached the truck door, Donovan stepped out of the truck, keeping the door between himself and the cop. He held the gun low, out of sight.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Must have left the paperwork on the kitchen table.”

  The young cop looked at him steadily for a moment, as if trying to intimidate a confession out of him. Donovan fought down the impulse to laugh out loud. He’d stared down badder men than this at the age of 16. Finally the cop looked away.

  “Okay,” he said. “Just get out of here.” He reached into the breast pocket of his uniform shirt and handed Donovan a card. “Call this number. It’s the Emergency Management Center. They’ve got people in from FEMA and from the State. They’ll tell you when it’s clear to come back and start debris removal. And I hear the FEMA people can help reimburse you for the cost. Includin’ what it cost to rent the backhoe.”

  Donovan reached out with his left hand and took the card. “Thanks.” The cop just nodded.

  “Come on,” Donovan said to Lofton. “Let’s go.” He slid the gun back under the seat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Wolf entered the living room from the splintered kitchen door. He saw the open front door, heard Dushane’s voice raised. There was another voice, a male one. It sounded like…

  It sounded like the man was crying.

  Wolf exited the door into the front yard. The bald man who’d greeted them earlier was lying on the ground, his hands secured behind him with plastic zip cuffs. He was writhing in obvious pain. Wolf saw the shotgun lying a few feet away in the grass.

  Dushane was standing over him, looking down, shouting at the top of her lungs. She was holding her own weapon in her right hand, down at her side. She was pointing at the bald man with her left, using her extended index finger to emphasize her words.

  “You have the RIGHT to remain SILENT, you bald-headed COCKSUCKER!” she screamed. “Which you MAY want to DO, so people don’t find out you got your BUTT kicked by a GIRL!”

  “L.D.,” Wolf said.

  “You have the right to whatever piece of shit DEFENSE Attorney you can get to REPRESENT your sorry redneck ASS.”

  “L.D.,” Wolf said, louder this time.

  “If, and this seems likely, you cannot scrape up enough spare change to get even some bottom of the barrel SHYSTER to stand up for you, one will, God help you, be APPOINTED to hold your hand as the JUDGE sends you off to the FEDERAL motherfucking PENITENTIARY!”

  “L.D.!” Wolf shouted it this time.

  She looked up, her eyes blazing. “Kinda busy here, boss.”

  “I can see that. Stick to the script, if you would. Or better yet, go help Deputy Buckthorn secure the scene indoors.”

  “Damn it,” she said. “This son of a bitch tried to…”

  Wolf could hear sirens approaching. “Just do it, L.D.”

  She sighed. “Yes, boss.” She looked down at the bald man, who was looking up at her, fear in his eyes, like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake. He turned to Wolf. “Keep that bitch away from me,” he said in a high, pleading voice. “She’s fucking crazy.”

  “Believe it, motherfucker,” she snarled. She stomped past Wolf into the house.

  “She kicked me in my fucking knee,” the man whimpered. “I think she broke it.”

  “You want to know why she did that?” Wolf said.

  The man looked baffled.

  “Because fuck off, that’s why.” As the first police car roared to a stop in the driveway, lights flashing and siren wailing, Wolf stood over the bald man.

  “You’re under arrest for kidnapping and for assaulting a federal officer,” he said. “For starters. You have the right to remain silent…”

  __________

  Dushane walked back into the living room, still shaking a little from adrenaline. Baldy had been faster than she’d anticipated, and she was rattled at how close he’d come to disarming her before she’d delivered a vicious side kick to the man’s kneecap. That was the move she privately called “The Equalizer.” No matter how big someone was, it only took eight pounds of pressure to shatter their knee. She’d never met anyone who could keep fighting after that. She hoped she never would.

  She looked towards the kitchen as she entered. There was blood on the counters and floor, and she saw Mullethead in a bloody heap next to the refrigerator.

  She saw Buckthorn, perched on the end of the couch. The dark-haired woman was lying there, face down, sobbing into a pillow. Buckthorn was speaking softly to her, so low that she couldn’t make out the words. He wasn’t touching her, but he had his arm braced on the back of the couch, held over her protectively like an angel’s wing. As she drew closer, Dushane could make out the words.

  “It’s okay,” he was saying. His voice was deep and soothing. “It’s all right. Nothing is going to hurt you. You’re safe. You’re safe. They’re gone. I promise, they’re gone. It’s okay.” She stopped, struck by the look on his face. It was fierce, intense, and she had the distinct feeling this wasn’t the first time he’d done this. He looked up at her, eyes blazing, as if she was a threat.

  “Hey,” she said softly. “We’ve got people on the way.”

  “Tell them if they have a sexual assault unit, they need to get them here. Or meet us at the station.”

  “Was she…” Dushane trailed off.

  “They were getting ready to,” Buckthorn said. “But before…they’d been messing with her for hours. Terrorizing her. Telling her what they were going to do to her. Bastards.”

  “Can I talk to her?” Dushane said. He looked hesitant, but then nodded.

  She got down on one knee. “Ma’am?” she said softly. The woman had stopped crying, but she still lay face down, like a child, taking in long shuddering breaths. “Mrs. Preston?” Dushane said, a little louder.

  The woman turned her head. Her haunted eyes were bloodshot, her face streaked with tears, but Dushane had seen those eyes before. They were the same ones as the girl in the photo. A strand of black hair hung down over her face. Dushane reached out to brush it out of the way, and the woman recoiled.

  “Sorry. Sorry,” Dushane muttered. “My name’s Leila Dushane. I’m with the FBI, and I need to tell you something. Can you hear me?”

  After a moment, the woman nodded.

  Dushane looked back over her shoulder to the kitchen. “That guy that was touching you? With the bad haircut? He’s dead. He’s got so many goddamn bullets in him he’d have died of lead poisoning if he hadn’t bled out. And that other son of a bitch? Bald, with tattoos? He’s lying in the grass outside, crying for his mama because I broke his fucking knee. And let me tell you, ma’am, it felt gooood. You want me to, I’ll go back out there and break his other one. I never liked thi
s job all that much anyway.”

  The woman gave her a slight smile, then a laugh that turned into another sob. But she got back under control quickly.

  Dushane went on. “Here’s what you’ve got to keep in mind. Neither of those guys is going to hurt you anymore. Ever. One’s dead, and I swear to you, me and my partner are going to get creative in thinking up ways to extend the other one’s stretch in federal prison to the point where if he walks out those prison gates at all, he’ll need a goddamn walker to do it. That suit you?”

  The woman nodded.

  “But here’s what I need you to do for me,” Dushane went on. “I need you to tell me why those guys were here.”

  The woman’s voice was an agonized whisper. “I can’t. I can’t.”

  Buckthorn stood up. He walked across the room to a wall where several pictures were hanging. He reached out and took one off the wall, carefully lifting it off its hook. He walked back over to the couch and sat back down. “Ma’am,” he said softly, “is this your daughter?” Dushane got a look at the picture. It was a class photograph, a young girl posed against a backdrop that looked like silver and blue clouds. The woman burst into tears again.

  “Mrs. Preston,” Dushane said. “If we don’t get to her in time, they’re going to kill her.”

  “If…if I tell you…tell you anything…” she choked the words out between sobs, “they’ll do worse.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “You and your partner here caught yourself a couple of real winners here, Agent Wolf,” Watson said. They were crammed into a conference room in the local police station. Wolf and Dushane were seated. Dushane had her feet up on the conference table. Buckthorn leaned against the wall.

  “Your dead guy is one John Metcalf,” Watson went on. “AKA Flatline.”

  “Someone must have had the gift of prophecy,” Dushane said.

  “The nickname, we’re told by the gang enforcement unit, had to do with Mr. Metcalf’s, shall we say, lack of cognitive skills.”