The Knight pbf-3

by Steven James

  “No, please-”

  He placed one hand gently on Bennett’s shoulder. “I want you to look carefully at that dog. It’s very important to me that you visualize what’s about to happen.” Then he unbuttoned Thomas’s shirt to reveal his bare chest.

  To make it easier for Nadine to get to her meal.

  The lock gave me more trouble than I thought it would, and when I heard yelling from inside the barn, I was getting ready to shoot it out after all-Click.

  Finally.

  Gun ready, I pressed the door open, swept the room.

  The clean, musky scent of leather.

  Saddles, halters, bridles hanging on the walls. Two grooming kits on the floor with fly spray, liniment, and brushes.

  The tack room.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  A door on the far wall.

  I ran toward it, eased it open, and stepped into the dusty, muted light of the barn.

  A network of shadows skirted along the wall. Just to my right, a thick wooden ladder led to the hayloft that darkened this corner of the barn even more. I was still out of sight. Good.

  My heart raced.

  I edged around the corner of an empty horse stall and scanned the barn.

  To the left, rows of hay bales and two horse stalls. Rusted farm equipment. A tractor. A few gasoline cans. To the right, four more horse stalls. Tarps. Boards. Rolls of twine. Several buckets, two containing water, one sweet feed, the fourth empty. A few bridles hanging from hooks on the wall nearby.

  A typical barn.

  Except for the hanging cage.

  And the dog.

  There were two men beside the cage. One in a wheelchair, the other with his back to me.

  John.

  Six foot, maybe six-one. Medium build. Jeans. Black sweatshirt. Black ski mask.

  Not much to go on, it could be almost anyone.

  I could see the side of the victim’s face and I recognized him from his DMV photo as Thomas Bennett. I couldn’t see the suspect’s hands. I had to assume he was armed.

  If I shouted for the killer to step aside, he might kill the man. I needed to move on him, but I needed to play this right.

  Nadine snarled, a green fire in her eyes.

  “Well, then,” Giovanni said, reaching for the feeding door’s latch.

  “Let’s get started.”

  When I heard the words I knew I couldn’t wait.

  I stepped out of the shadows. “Stop!” I aimed my gun at the suspect’s center mass. “Hands to your side and step away from the cage.”

  Giovanni froze. He recognized that voice.

  Bowers.

  Impressive.

  Impeccable timing.

  The suspect didn’t move. His back was still toward me.

  I edged closer. “Hands to the side and turn around. Do it now or I will shoot. Hands out, now!”

  He didn’t move.

  “He’s gonna kill me!” Thomas Bennett hollered.

  “Show me your hands!” Then I heard a metallic snap, the suspect lifted his arms, and that’s when Thomas Bennett began to scream.

  48

  The next two seconds were a blur.

  The suspect dove toward the jumbled network of hay bales, and I saw the dog thrust its head through a small door in the cage, lunging toward Thomas Bennett’s chest.

  No!

  I eyed down my SIG at the dog.

  Giovanni was rolling beneath the gate of an empty horse stall when he heard the shot.

  Before I could pull the trigger, a gunshot ricocheted through the barn and the dog slammed against the side of the cage, dark blood spouting from a gaping wound in the back of its head. One of the small windows at the far side of the barn was shattered.

  Cheyenne.

  She’d fired through the glass, threaded the bullet between the bars of the cage, and hit the dog in the eye in mid-attack at fifteen meters.

  Brilliant shot.

  Admire her later.

  I ran to Bennett but kept my gun trained on the hay bales. “Are you hurt?” He was staring blankly at the dead dog. “Mr. Bennett, are you OK?”

  At last he nodded. Swallowed. Nodded again.

  We were too exposed. No time to untie him.

  No time.

  I tried to push the chair to safety, but the wheels were locked.

  Quick. Quick.

  With one eye on the hay bales, I unsnapped the locks and yanked the wheelchair across the barn floor, bouncing it over the boards and into an empty horse stall in a shadowed corner of the barn. If the suspect were armed, the gate to the stall would offer at least a little protection.

  Cheyenne was outside. She could cover the door in case John tried to escape.

  Unless there’s another way out.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told Bennett.

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Untie me!”

  I started for the hay bales as Cheyenne threw open the tack room door.

  “He’s behind the bales,” I shouted to her, and she slid into position to cover the east side of the bales. Bennett kept yelling for help, but for the time being I ignored him. I had to find John.

  “Step out now!” I yelled.

  I saw shuffling movement somewhere in the darkness, but I had no visual on the suspect. “Hands in the air!” I signaled to Cheyenne that I was heading in, and she ducked behind the tractor to cover me.

  Giovanni lay still and silent beside the gasoline cans and looked down the barrel of his Wilson Combat Elite Professional. 45 ACP at Detective Warren’s back.

  He had a clear shot at her. Yes. He could shoot her right now and then take out Bowers as he rushed to help her, but he didn’t want to do that. Not after all the planning, all the preparations.

  Giovanni considered his options.

  He doubted the FBI or DPD could offer him any better adversaries than these two.

  Well, one way to find out just how good they were.

  The sound of a gunshot sent me pivoting backward behind a horse stall.

  I looked at Bennett and saw that he was still struggling to get free.

  “You OK?”

  “He’s shooting at me!” He sounded unhurt.

  Cheyenne still sat crouched behind the tractor. I called to her, “Cheyenne, are you-”

  “I’m fine.”

  Then I saw that the bullet had shattered a bucket near the cage and sent rose petals spewing across a silk sheet laying on the hay.

  “Drop your weapon!” I yelled.

  End this now.

  I nodded toward Cheyenne, and she leveled her gun. I rounded the corner of the stall and entered the maze of hay bales.

  Nothing.

  Heart beating.

  Around another bale.

  No one.

  Where is he?

  I edged around the second row of bales near the wall of the barn.

  Still nothing. Still quiet.

  Maybe there’s another way out.

  Then, the scent of gasoline.

  And then a line of flames, leaping, springing to life from the dry hay near the Appaloosa’s stall. The fire raced across the floor to one of the barn’s support beams. In the tangled light I saw a figure bolt toward the tack room out of Cheyenne’s line of fire.

  I aimed. “Stop, FBI!”

  Identify the subject. Confirm that it’s This man wore a gray polo shirt, not a black sweatshirt.

  No shot! No shot!

  “There’s two of them!” I yelled to Cheyenne. I ran forward.

  He slipped through the tack room door. A moment later I arrived and grabbed the handle.

  Locked.

  I shot out the lock, then threw my shoulder against the door, but it wouldn’t move. I slammed into it again, but it held fast. He must have propped something against the other side or bolted it shut.

  The fire was spreading quickly around me, devouring the hay in great gulps, snaking around the perimeter of th
e barn.

  Smoke billowed toward the ceiling.

  A shift in priorities.

  Get Thomas and Cheyenne out of the barn. Now.

  49

  I holstered my weapon and ran toward Bennett as Cheyenne wrestled with the metal sliding doors at the far end of the barn. “Will it flare up if I open the door?” she yelled.

  I wasn’t sure. The rush of oxygen might cause the barn to fill with flames, but we didn’t have any other options. “It’ll be fine. Open it!”

  Beside one of the stalls I noticed the black sweatshirt.

  He changed shirts so you wouldn’t shoot him!

  Man, this guy was smart. Really smart.

  Either that, or there are two men…

  “Help!” Thomas yelled. I made it to him and grabbed the wheelchair’s handles but quickly realized that the fire was spreading too fast to roll him all the way across the barn. I needed to cut him loose. I flicked out the blade of my Wraith and slit the tape binding his right arm.

  Cheyenne opened the sliding door.

  The barn didn’t explode into flames-thankfully, yes, thank-fully-“Get out!” I yelled to her, but she ran toward the stalls to free the horses.

  I cut Thomas’s left wrist free. Bent to cut his legs loose.

  Smoke began pooling at the ceiling. The two horses circled in their stalls, snorting, stomping. Tossing their heads.

  “Hurry!” Bennett yelled at me.

  How is this fire spreading so fast?

  As I cut the tape from his left leg, I took a quick glance around the barn. Almost immediately, I could see that the hay and the boards hadn’t been strewn randomly across the floor, but were laid in careful, crisscrossed rows. All designed to block the exit with flames.

  John was ready for us. He was prepared.

  I cut the tape from Bennett’s other leg. Put the knife away. “Can you stand?”

  “I don’t know.” He tried but collapsed backward. He shook his head. “Drugged me. Knocked me out.”

  A quick survey of the barn.

  It was bad.

  The fire already barred the exit and was moving steadily toward us, sealing us into the corner of the barn that lay farthest from the sliding doors. I couldn’t carry Thomas through the field of flames. We’d never make it.

  Cheyenne unlatched one of the horses’ gates. A black horse reared back, then took off at a dead run, jumping over the two-foot-high ridge of fire now encircling the barn’s perimeter, and disappeared out the door.

  Cheyenne reached for the Appaloosa’s gate, and I had an idea.

  “Wait!” I yelled.

  I hoisted Bennett over my shoulder and snatched a bridle from a hook on the wall.

  Even if I couldn’t get Bennett out, Cheyenne could.

  50

  She must have read my mind because she grabbed the horse’s halter to steady her.

  “Take Thomas!” I yelled.

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me.” I lowered Thomas to his feet and wrapped an arm around him to support him.

  The horse tensed and whinnied, but Cheyenne worked at soothing her, calming her down. Then she shouted to me. “I won’t leave you!”

  Two of the walls were completely consumed. I grabbed Cheyenne’s arm. “You have to go.”

  “Get me out of here!” Thomas hollered.

  I handed Cheyenne the bridle, but she tossed it aside, grabbed a handful of mane, and swung onto the horse’s back. “I’ll come back for you,” she said.

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  With a surge of adrenaline and Cheyenne’s help, I hoisted Thomas onto the horse, where he wrapped his unsteady arms around her waist and then slumped forward. I hoped he’d be clear-headed enough to stay on the horse.

  The fire climbed the wall to my left, toward the hayloft.

  I scanned the barn but couldn’t see any way for me to get out. I knew the horse could gallop through the burning hay, but I’d be lucky to make it as far as the cage.

  I reached for the latch and studied the chains holding up the cage.

  The opening from the sliding doors is nearly three meters high.. .

  The horse stamped and circled. “Open the gate!” Cheyenne yelled.

  You can’t make the shot, Pat. Not from here.

  No, but Cheyenne can.

  I pointed to the length of chain attached to the corner of the cage closest to me. “Shoot the base of the chain!”

  “What?”

  “The chain. The closest one. Shoot it at the base!” Holding on wouldn’t be easy, but it’d be a lot easier than crawling upside down across the ceiling of my garage.

  She gave me a puzzled look, then I pointed to the fire snaking up the wall toward the hayloft, and at last it registered. She drew her gun. “Open the latch!”

  “But-”

  “Do it!”

  I threw open the gate, but instead of taking aim she kicked the horse into a flat-out gallop.

  No!

  Now I’ll never get As the Appaloosa raced through the blaze, Cheyenne swung her gun to the right and fired four shots at the chain as they passed the cage.

  A clang.

  The cage’s corner dropped to the ground, and the chain nearest me swung free.

  This woman could shoot a gun.

  The chain would be too hot to touch and probably too short to reach the ladder’s base, so I grabbed one of the horse blankets and dashed toward the cage.

  51

  I reached the cage and whipped the end of the horse blanket around the chain. Cinched it tight and ran back to the hayloft pulling the chain with me.

  Holding the blanket, I climbed the ladder. The flames that were snaking up the wall raced me to the hayloft.

  I scrambled onto the landing and stood. Stared across the barn.

  I had a straight shot from the loft to the sliding doors, and the opening was high enough, but I’d need to avoid hitting the other chains and keep my feet above the flames raging across the floor.

  But I could do it.

  Maybe.

  Flames began to finger their way over the edge of the hayloft and lick at the hay around my feet.

  You need to go. Now.

  I moved the blanket up the chain. Squeezed it.

  Took a deep breath.

  And jumped.

  52

  I swung through the barn.

  Gauged my timing. Waited.

  Flung my body toward the opening.

  And let go.

  I landed hard on my left side just beyond the edge of the flames, and rolled out the door, through the dirt, rolled, rolled away from the blaze until at last, I pushed myself to my feet and scrambled into the field.

  The heat chased me, but with every stride it grew less fierce, less intense.

  A quick breath.

  Another.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the barn erupt into a ball of flame that mushroomed into the deep blue Colorado sky. A gust of heat swooped over me, and I had to cover my face with my arm and turn my back to the fire.

  When I looked up I saw Cheyenne about five meters away, hurrying toward me, leading the Appaloosa. She’d managed to get Thomas off the horse, and he was leaning against a fence post nearby. “Pat!” she called. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m all right.” Looking toward the barn, I saw that the gray Infiniti was gone. “You?”

  She nodded and let go of the halter. The horse left and joined its partner, who was already more interested in nibbling grass than watching the burning barn. Although they each had some singed hair, thankfully neither animal looked seriously injured.

  Police sirens wailed through the neighboring canyons.

  If John was in the Infiniti, we might be able to catch him leaving the property.

  I pulled out my cell but discovered it was cracked and dead. I must have smashed it when I landed and rolled away from the fire. Cheyenne noticed and handed me hers.

  “Thanks.” I tapped in Kurt’s n
umber and stepped away from Bennett so I could talk in private.

  Kurt answered before I could say a word. “Cheyenne, we’re on our way.”

  “It’s Pat,” I explained. “Cheyenne’s here with me. Listen, we’re looking for a male Caucasian, medium build, dressed in blue jeans and a gray shirt.” I gave him the plate numbers for the Infiniti.

  “Gotcha. I’ll pass it on.”

  Then, a thought. “Wait. He changed clothes once. He might have changed again. And it’s possible there are two men.”

  “OK.”

  I oriented myself to the steep, thickly forested terrain surrounding the ranch and considered the most recent research on the rational choice patterns of fleeing suspects. “If he’s on foot,” I told Kurt, “he’ll tend to bear right and favor southern slopes. He’ll head downhill. If he’s still in the car, tell your officers to look for him to take a left on Piney Oaks Road, then two rights. He’ll avoid the first on ramp to the highway-”

  “Pat,” he said. He sounded a little annoyed. “We’re on it.”

  “Have Colonel Freeman circle the area. What about road blocks, other air support?”

  “Done.”

  I looked at the barn. “And send a fire truck. He burned down the barn. No known casualties.” But even as I said the words I realized that by the time a fire suppression unit arrived, it’d be too late to do any good. Still, it seemed best to have a fire truck on site just in case. “And have the Arapaho forest station send a firefighter unit in case this fire decides to spread.”

  “I’ll call it in,” Kurt said. “See you in a minute.” We ended the call, and I handed Cheyenne her phone.

  “I was coming back for you,” she said softly. She was close enough now for me to see the intense concern on her face. “I thought maybe you…”

  “He tried to kill me,” Thomas called to us.

  We went to him, and as I walked, I realized that landing on my side hadn’t helped my bruised ribs feel better, but I reassured myself that it hurt a lot less than being burned alive.

  Kneeling beside him, I noticed that he’d suffered first- and second-degree burns on the right side of his face, neck, and arm, but he didn’t appear to have any third-degree burns or life-threatening injuries. “Are you all right?” I asked.