Mac rolled once to his right and emptied his clip. One shot hit the woman in her right shoulder, knocking her back and exposing her whole body. Another shot hit her torso and blew her backward into the water. The chief stumbled past him, under the bow and to the cover of the other side of the boat.
“Go, Mac, I’ve got you covered,” Fornier yelled, firing.
Mac fished Lyman out of the water and dragged him the last twenty feet to the safety of the boat. Mac heard Lich yell, “He’s down! He’s down! They’re all down!”
The whole thing was over in less than twenty seconds.
“Mac!” the chief yelled. “The girls, we don’t know where the girls are.”
“Relax, Chief,” Mac replied with a broad small smile on his face as he leaned back against the boat. “We have them.”
“But…” the chief was astonished. “How? Boyo,” the chief started smiling, grabbing Mac by the scruff of his neck. “How in the hell did you do it?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Mac answered and then called Riles. “Pat?”
“Mac, everyone all right?”
“Yeah. Lyman’s hit in the back of his right leg. We’re going to need to get him out of here,” Mac reported. He pulled out a heavy-duty Swiss Army knife and cut the chief’s and Lyman’s hands loose. Then Mac rolled Lyman onto his stomach and cut his pant leg away to get a look at the wound. The hole was on the outside of the right thigh.
“How bad?” Lyman grunted, grimacing in pain.
“I’ve seen worse,” Mac answered as Lich handed him a hankie and he applied pressure. “We should get a tourniquet on this,” Mac said as he started to loosen his belt. “There should be a first aid kit in the boat,” he said to Fornier. “It’s down in the companionway. There should be towels down there as well, grab them.”
Fornier climbed into the boat.
“You’ve got help coming, be there any minute,” Riles reported and then said, “Wait a minute…” and then there was a pause. “Mac!”
“What?” Mac answered, tightening his belt around Hisle’s upper thigh.
“I don’t see Brown.”
“What?”
“Brown. I don’t see him. He went down by the woods, but now he’s gone.”
40
“Game.Set.Match.”
Mac crawled to the bow and peered around it. Smith Brown was indeed gone. He must have gone into the woods.
“I guess we’re not done yet.”
“What?” Lich asked. “I thought you hit him.”
“I did damn it. I put him down. But now the fucker’s gone,” Mac answered. “Riles, paint the woods with the search light.”
The chopper turned its nose toward the woods on the other side of the clearing. “Riles, do you see anything?”
“Negative, Mac. We see nothing.”
Mac already decided his next move as he slipped a new clip into his Sig-Sauer.
“We’re all going,” Lich said, knowing his partner, grabbing additional shells for the shotgun out of his pocket, and pushing them in. Fournier checked her Glock-17 and the Stillwater chief his smaller Glock-9.
“Give me a gun,” the chief ordered. “I’m going with you.”
“You sure you’re up to it?” Lich asked.
“Fuck you. Give me your piece of shit backup piece,” the chief ordered.
“This?” Lich asked as he pulled up his pant leg to show an old Smith amp; Wesson six-shooter. The chief grabbed it from the ankle holster, popped open the cylinder, and checked it and then snapped his right wrist, which pulled the cylinder back in place.
“What about Hisle?” Fournier asked.
“I’m fine,” the lawyer answered, looking at his leg. “Help will be here soon enough. You go catch that bastard.”
Mac didn’t need to be told twice. He looked toward the group, “Ready?” Everyone nodded. Mac grabbed the radio. “Riles, we’re heading in.”
“Mac, wait ten seconds and you’ll have help from the Wisconsin side, the St. Croix County sheriff. His name is Kolls.” Mac looked back to his left, and three boats pulled into the small cove. The first one in the water was the sheriff himself. He was quickly followed by a crew of deputies. All had vests on and their weapons drawn.
Mac immediately went to the sheriff. “Sheriff Kolls, we have one on the move in the woods to the north. He was hit, left shoulder I think, and is injured.”
Kolls smiled and pointed to the cliffs. “Not to worry son. There’s no way out of here except through us or if he wants to swim.” The sheriff then looked to the rest of the men. “I want us in a line, moving straight north. Let’s flush him out.”
“The man’s name is Smith Brown. He is armed and dangerous,” Mac added. “He has a. 45 and will use it. He just threw down on us.”
“So be careful,” the sheriff added.
The group moved into the woods in a line. Mac took the chief and moved to the far right of the skirmish line, working their way to the cliffs. Five minutes and one-hundred yards into the woods, Mac started to wonder. “Chief, did you overhear anything from these guys as to what they were going to do after, you know…”
“They capped us,” the chief answered, a wry smile on his face. “They didn’t share anything with us if that’s what you’re asking. I assumed they would cap us and then take the boat back out.”
“Right,” Mac answered, moving forward. The brush was getting thicker, with logs and branches strewn on the ground. Despite the flashlight in the chief’s hand and others close by, the woods were getting darker and darker. Mac had trouble seeing more than a few feet in front. He stepped onto a large log and jumped off and hit a tree in front of him.
“Ow. Shit that hurts.”
He banged into a thorny tree branch that dug into his left thigh. Looking down he could see blood coming through a hole ripped in his khakis.
“Let me see,” the chief said, bending down to look at the leg, putting his flashlight on the hole. “Hmmm. That’s a nasty gash you’ve got there boyo.”
Sheriff Kolls approached and inspected the thigh. “Stitches for sure. There’s a first aid kit back in the boats. You should go get that taken care of.”
“I want to finish this,” Mac protested.
Kolls shook his head. “We’ve got this. It’s just a matter of time, trust me.”
Mac and the chief hung back as Kolls and the rest of the skirmish line moved forward.
“It felt like a knife going into my leg,” Mac said, flexing his leg.
“I imagine it did.”
The two slowly walked back toward the campsite and boats.
“It’s hard to maneuver in here with no light, these trees, logs, and bushes all around,” Mac said. “I can’t imagine Brown doing it, wounded in the shoulder, that black… bag… over… his… holy shit. How did I miss that?”
“Miss what?”
“I must be really tired.”
“Miss what boyo. Spit it out.”
“Chief, they had the bags of money with them, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“They weren’t going back to the boats.”
The chief got it. “They had a different out.”
“Yes, they did, you know what Monica Reynolds bought at that hardware store in Wyoming?”
“What?”
“An extension ladder. An extremely long extension ladder, “Mac answered, already moving back toward the camp site. “I’m betting Brown went up. They had that extension ladder. It’s probably not far from the campsite.”
With their flashlights lighting the way, Mac and the chief picked their way back toward the campsite. Fifty feet short, Mac’s light flashed across it. He stopped and moved closer and there it was: a streak of blood at shoulder level. Mac moved his light further left and noted two more streaks of blood. The chief saw them as well.
Mac pushed that direction. It was fifty or so feet to the base of the cliff. He looked up.
“Look there boyo,” the chief said, pointing to the right in
to the soft sand at the base of the cliff. “Those prints look fresh.”
“That they do. He doubled back on us,” Mac answered already making his way back south, toward the camp. He went twenty feet or so and the prints turned left into a narrow crevice, perhaps ten feet wide, which carved its way deep into the cliff face. Mac and the chief, weapons drawn slowly moved into the crevice, which curved slowly to the left. Fifty feet in, they found the extension ladder. Fully extended, the ladder reached nearly thirty feet up to a ledge.
“Cover me,” Mac said as he stuffed his Sig in his pants and climbed the ladder, his left thigh burning with each bend of his leg and push up off a ladder step. At the top, Mac saw a narrow path that weaved its way further up into the cliffs. Mac waved the chief up.
Once the chief reached the top, Mac radioed Riley.
“Riles, do you copy?”
“Go, Mac.”
“Brown doubled back. I’ve just climbed an extension ladder and I’m on a ledge some thirty or forty feet up into the cliff. You won’t be able to see me. The chief and I are going to work our way up to the top. Get up top with the chopper, see if you can see Brown. He’s either out or will be coming out up there somewhere. Also, radio the sheriff and clue him in. Brown must have a vehicle waiting up there. We’re going to need ground troops and vehicles up there.”
“Copy, Mac.”
Brown had managed to put the duffel bag of money over his right shoulder and let the strap run diagonally across his body so that the bulk of the bag rested on his left hip. Nonetheless, it was a struggle to make his way up with only one arm. The pain shot through this left shoulder with every step up the narrow path. The shoulder would require attention soon. The wound was a through and through. He had a handkerchief stuffed in the front wound but he could feel the blood seeping into his shirt from the exit wound in the back.
He could hear the sound of the chopper flying overhead. He looked up and saw the search light sweeping up toward the top. The police must have realized he doubled back on them. He needed to get to the top.
He was at an optional point in the path. There was straight ahead or a steeper and narrower path to the left. David and Dean had gone straight ahead two days ago while he and Monica had gone left. Either way would get him to the top of the cliff and to the waiting pickup truck. The left path was longer but offered more cover at the top as the path exited into the dense woods. To the right, the path was shorter but the opening at the top was exposed and he would have to run some twenty or thirty yards to reach the cover of the trees.
Mac took the point, with the chief following. Every so often, along the narrow cliff walls, Mac noted a blood smear.
“You must have hit him good,” the chief said. “He’s draining a lot of blood.”
Mac and the chief approached a fork in the path. They both knelt down and each scanned with their flashlights. There were footprints in either direction.
“Riles, have you seen anything at the top?” Mac asked.
“Negative Mac. Nothing yet.”
“How about a vehicle? Truck? Car? Anything?”
“Negative. There’s a small clearing up here but the woods are really dense, Mac. We’ve swept them, but we can’t really see down to the bottom in most places. Brown could be going through there, and I don’t think we could see him.”
Mac looked to the chief. “Are you alright with splitting up?”
“Yes,” the chief answered.
“Okay, I’m betting he went straight,” Mac said. “That looks flatter and that would be easier with his shoulder and carrying that bag. Besides, my Sig is better than that antique you’re carrying.”
“Fair enough,” the chief answered. “Remember though, the son of a bitch has that. 45. He has nothing to lose at this point. He will not hesitate.”
“Neither will I.”
Smith reached the top of the path. He’d made the right choice. Through the dense woods he could see the searchlight of the chopper, maybe one hundred yards to his right, scanning the area where the other path reached the top. All he had left was a narrow path, perhaps one hundred yards long to the pick-up truck, which was covered with a camouflage tarp.
He started down the path, jogged thirty yards, glanced back and saw him.
The chief reached the top of the path and met Brown’s eyes, and the barrel of the. 45. He raised the Smith.
The end of the path emerged into a clearing on the top of the cliffs. Mac looked up to the chopper.
“Shit.”
Brown went the other way. There’s no way Riley would have missed him. He immediately turned back to his left where the chief’s path would have come out of the cliff. The exit of the chief’s path would have been into the dense forest. Then he saw the muzzle flashes.
“Riles, shots fired at ten o’clock! Shots fired at ten o’clock!” Mac yelled as he ran into the dense woods and toward the muzzle flashes.
The chief got two off before he ducked for cover, as Brown unloaded his. 45 causing shards from the trees to rain down upon him. The shots stopped, and the chief looked to see Brown was running down the path. The chief pushed himself up and gave chase, firing.
The chopper was overhead scanning the path as Smith ran as hard as he could, even as one, two, and then three shots went by. The chopper must have seen the muzzle flashes for Flanagan’s shots as the light was behind him now. The truck was within reach, another thirty yards. But he needed to stop Flanagan first or he wouldn’t be able to get the tarp off and get away.
The chief was shooting on the fly. Then he saw Brown turning around with the. 45, standing in the middle of the path, exposed. The chief set his feet.
Smith’s leg buckled as Flanagan’s shot grazed his right leg. He was hit, but it didn’t put him down. It was nothing like the wound in his left shoulder. Flanagan was trying to fire again, but nothing was coming out of the gun. He was out of bullets. Slowly Flanagan’s arm dropped to his side and a resigned look appeared on his face.
“Flanagan, that must be an old Smith you’re holding there and you’ve had your six. You’re finished,” Brown yelled as he raised the. 45.
“But I’m not!” a voice yelled from behind him.
Smith turned around to see Mac McRyan, with bloody arms and face, feet set, gun pointed right at him.
“Put it down, Brown!”
Brown started to raise the. 45.
Mac didn’t hesitate.
He hit center mass three times.
Smith Brown was blown flat on his back.
The chief walked up to Brown and kicked the. 45 away. Brown spit blood out of his mouth, laboring to breathe, laboring to speak.
“You… may have… got me. But you won’t… find… the girls.”
A blood-filled smile crossed his face.
“I lost my daughter… because of… you. Now you… will know… how it feels.”
The chief kneeled down and looked Brown in the face and smiled.
“My boys, they found the girls.”
Brown’s eyes went wide with disbelief.
“No… it’s not… it’s not possible. You’re lying.” Brown said, spitting more blood.
“No we’re not,” Mac answered, standing over him now, blood streaming down his left cheek, the duffel bag of ransom money in his left hand. “We dug them out of the ground at O’Brien State Park a couple of hours ago.”
“They’re alive,” the chief stated. “You failed.”
“And we know about Burton,” Mac added. “He sold you out. He broke in two minutes.”
Brown’s shook his head, “N… N… No,” he said, the blood running out of his mouth. Death was seconds away. Mac held up the duffel bag, smiled and uttered the last words Smith Brown would ever hear.
“Game. Set. Match.”
41
“ It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
JULY 5th
4:48 AM
It took a little over two hours, and he was dead tired, but Mac gave Heather Foxx everything,
or just about everything.
He looked like hell, like death warmed over he said later. Sally, watching from behind the camera, remarked that he looked ten years older.
“But that’s fine,” Heather said. “It makes the story that much more dramatic. People will see what you put into it, how hard you went after it. The big scar on your face. The whole ‘never say die’ and ‘against all odds’ thing. It’ll be great.”
“If you say so.” Mac hated interviews. But in this case, it was the least he could do. Heather had saved the chief and kept her word, kept the story close until it was done. She had lost the story of the girls’ rescue to another station — that broke while she was interviewing Mac. But she was the first with the whole story, and she had it in time for the morning news program. By the end of the day, her face — and Mac’s — would be on stations across the country, she predicted.
“Sorry Mac, the story is just that good.”
“Great,” was his wry reply. “But I’m done, right? I don’t have to do any more of this?”
“Not with me. I imagine many of my brethren will be seeking your time.”
“Not if I can help it,” Mac answered, yawning. He could barely stay awake; his body was shutting down.
The bureau was none too happy, not that he cared at this point. They weren’t happy that one of their men had been the mole, although that wasn’t out as of yet. Heather held back that element of the story, at least for now. The FBI seemed even more aggravated about the interrogation technique used on Burton. The director was flying in to town to personally meet with the mayor, as well as the chief and Peters, blustering about an explanation and investigation. Peters said he and the chief weren’t worried about it.
“Fuck the FBI,” Peters snorted. “Besides,” he added. “If the almighty director makes a big stink, we’ll have Heather go with the whole story.”
“She’ll play ball?” Mac asked.
“Hell yes,” Peters responded smiling. “She feels like she’s one of us now, a ‘copper.’ She’d like nothing more than to go with it, but we’re willing to work with the bureau on it. But if the Fibbies make a lot of noise and don’t play ball, we’ll cut Heather loose. She’ll have a field day.”
Deadly Stillwater Page 33