by Olson, Mal
He looked at Blade. “Once we’re inside, I’ll verify the location of the explosives. You and Brandy’ll crash the party in the turbine room.”
From a nearby mound of brush, Thigpen retrieved an AK–47 and tossed it to Blade. “I borrowed this from one of the NNFF brothers who was on guard duty when I first arrived. He’s no longer part of the equation,” he said, reaching for his shoulder holster, sliding out a Springfield .45 handgun.
“Beringer, I’ll take point until we get inside. You and your deputy cover my six.”
Blade gave Brandy a glance—more than a glance—a look that warmed her insides, a look that said he cared about her. A look she hoped said he trusted her. It touched her heart, but damn it, did he really trust her to back him up?
He turned to Tonya. “Brandy’ll need your rifle.”
Thank you, Beringer. She studied his face, and something arced between them.
Tonya sputtered, her feathers obviously ruffled. “And what do I do? Sit here and twiddle my thumbs?”
“Here,” Thigpen said. From a CrossBreed inside–waistband holster, he whipped out a Sig Sauer and gave it to Tonya. “Watch for any rats trying to escape the sinking ship.”
Already heading for the powerhouse, he said, “Let’s move. If we’ve got one thing going for us, it’s that these guys aren’t suicide bombers. They’ll likely rig the detonator with a timer to allow getaway time. That’ll buy us an extra five minutes if we’re lucky.”
From nowhere someone shouted, “Hold your fire!”
Brandy swung the rifle around as Blade jerked the AK–47 into position, and Thigpen took aim with the Springfield.
“Sheriff’s Department! Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Christiansen, hefting a rifle, rumbled toward them.
After a collective sigh of relief, Blade asked, “How the hell did you get here?”
“Once I made it to the access road, I finessed my way on foot through the washout and hiked in.” The deputy grinned. “Thought I’d even up the odds.”
And what were the odds? Brandy wondered. The surrounding forest was probably crawling with Neo Nazis. And inside the powerhouse? Who the hell knew how many crazy white supremacists it took to blow up a dam?
CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT
Brandy crept through the entrance to the powerhouse, pressed tight against Blade’s back. Thigpen and Christiansen darted to the right. Brandy followed Blade to the left. She startled at the sight of a body, a man in a navy coverall sprawled on the floor near the generator room. Her toe bumped a yellow hardhat that lay several feet from the man’s blood–smeared chest. It rattled, the sound echoing against hard surfaces. Her pulse kicked up, and she held her breath. Jeez, Wilcox, stupid rookie mistake.
Blade cut her a reassuring look and signaled her to drop down. She and Rambo followed him, crawling along the perimeter of the wall.
Once they passed through the door to the generator room, the huge machines gave them cover. Voices boomed and reverberated from behind the equipment. Brandy and Blade stole up and drew tight against the first generator. She followed Blade’s lead and inched her head higher for a better visual. Four men crouched between the first and second generators, laboring over what had to be a timing device. She raised another inch and identified— holy shit— Reverend McKee. She hadn’t expected him to be involved in the hands–on phase.
She locked glances with Blade, and he nodded, mouthing, On three.
One, two, “ Three!” He sprang up, aiming his weapon dead at McKee’s chest. “Hold it right there, McKee.”
The reverend’s head jolted up. He zeroed in on Blade. “Well, well, if it isn’t Lieutenant Blade Beringer.”
Two of the men beside McKee reached for their weapons.
“Freeze!” Brandy yelled, her heart beating at triple speed, her trigger finger tense.
McKee held up his hands, and his cohorts followed his lead.
Brandy eased closer to the mad bombers, her rifle steady on the man to the left of McKee, watching for any sign that he was going for his weapon.
Edging backward, McKee said to Blade, “You really want to take time to play hero, boy? This thing’s going to blow in five minutes. I suggest we take off now and sort things out later.”
From the opposite end of the cavernous room, Thigpen and Christiansen crept in, weapons sighted on the terrorists.
Blade stalked McKee, moving closer, rifle against his shoulder. “No one’s going anywhere until you disable that timer.”
“You’re looking at the wrong man, boy. I’m versed in the set–up phase, but once the clock starts ticking, I don’t have a clue how to disable it.”
“You’re lying.”
McKee’s eyes narrowed. “You calling your own father a liar, Son?”
What?
Brandy’s heart climbed into her throat. What had the SOB said? She had to have heard wrong. He was trying to distract Blade.
She took her eyes off her target for an instant and glanced at Blade. His jaw hardened. A muscle in his cheek ticked. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Don’t let him rile you, Blade.
“What’s the matter, Son?” McKee pressed on. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I finally tracked you down a couple of years ago when your momma died. By then I knew it was too late to bring you into the fold or drum a lick of sense into your head.”
Blade’s finger twitched over the rifle’s trigger. “ Richard Lutz? You bastard, you’re Richard Lutz?”
Brandy’s heart pumped at the revelation, and she ached for Blade.
“You can imagine my surprise when my boy showed up right in Little Chute, wearing a badge, and siding against the Church of God’s Chosen People.” His glance darted from the timer to the exit. “If you don’t get a move on, we’ll be settling this at God’s pearly gates.”
Blade had turned white as sun–bleached aspen bark, but he managed to say, “We’re not going anywhere until the bomb’s disabled.”
“Headstrong and foolish. But you’ve got grit. Proves you’re a chip off the old block.”
“Fuck you. Stop that timer. Now.”
“Judgment day’s drawing closer by the second—you’re not using common sense, boy.”
“I hope to hell I’ve got more sense than you.”
“Ye who stray from the flock shall suffer the wrath of the Lord. Sorry, Blade, I guess today’s your day to die.” McKee seemed resolved to let the timer tick down.
Brandy’s gaze stalled on the ticking timer. Blade nodded at Thigpen. Immediately, Thigpen lunged toward the detonator while Blade moved his rifle sight to the terrorists Thigpen had been covering. At that instant, McKee’s hand slipped into his front pants pocket.
Shoot! Brandy’s finger reacted automatically. She squeezed the rifle’s trigger. McKee’s hand never left his pocket. He howled and blood spattered from his chest, even as he got off a shot of his own that exploded directly from his pocket, through the fabric of his pants. A reflex reaction of his right arm as it jerked up revealed a pistol, which flew six feet into the air then dropped, thudding against the generator. McKee–Lutz, whoever the hell he was, crumpled to the ground.
“Cuff him,” Brandy yelled, but Blade didn’t move. She glanced to her left.
Blade dropped to his knees, his weapon clattering to the concrete floor. Blood oozed from his thigh through a hole in his pants.
“Oh my God, you’re hit! Man down!”
It all seemed to happen at once. Christiansen charged the trio of terrorists, disarming one and slamming him to the ground. Thigpen somehow managed to disarm the other two. Instantly, the three men were face down on the concrete floor with Rambo growling and baring his teeth as he stood guard.
Brandy threw herself down next to Blade and tried to ignore the timer. Three minutes and counting.
Thigpen lunged for the bomb while Christiansen handcuffed two of the Neo Nazis together. Blade tossed a pair of flex cuffs to Brandy. “Secure that last guy. Then you and Christiansen get these b
astards out of here.”
Two minutes. Heart hammering, Brandy shook her head.
“Go… please.” Blade hissed out a breath while the circle of blood saturating his pants spread wider.
Brandy’s insides went numb. “Damned if I’m going anywhere without you, Beringer.” She tossed the cuffs to Christiansen and stayed on her knees next to Blade. Ripping his tattered pants, tearing off a hunk of fabric, she pressed it over the blood oozing from his leg.
Christiansen motioned the terrorists to their feet and pushed them toward the exit, Rambo backing him up with fierce snarls.
One minute, thirty seconds.
On his knees, still laboring over the timer, Thigpen swore. Blade scooted next to the agent, studied the setup for a second, then tapped Thigpen’s arm.
Thigpen’s head jerked up.
“The wire on the left?” Blade said, letting the agent read his lips.
Brandy clung to Blade’s leg, applying pressure. “How do you know? The wires are all black.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Yeah,” Thigpen grunted, “the left was my guess too.”
“Guess?” Brandy willed her mind not to compute.
“Educated guess,” Blade added. “Residual brain clutter from Special Forces demolition training.”
“Hold the other wires out of the way, Beringer.”
“Got ‘em.”
“One minute,” Brandy whispered, the fabric beneath her fingers now soaked with sticky warmth. How much longer before he bled out? Or was she imagining a geyser of blood erupting from Blade’s leg, exaggerating the seriousness of his injury because she couldn’t bear the thought of him dying?
Blade stretched, firming his grip on the intricate weave of wires. Thigpen slid a knife across the wire. Brandy leaned into Blade and pressed the cloth tighter against his thigh. She closed her eyes for a second, a prayer beating in her heart—he couldn’t die. But then, what chance did any of them have of escaping obliteration?
She leaned in and pressed her body against his heat and touched her mouth to his ear. “I love you, Blade.” Had she said it aloud or in her heart?
Blade’s muscles tensed another notch, and he shot a quick glance her way. He nodded. Just as quickly, his blue eyes flicked back to the wires.
Thirty seconds.
Chillingly mesmerized, Brandy couldn’t tear her gaze from Thigpen’s knife. He sliced.
Nothing happened.
Twenty seconds.
He continued to slide the blade futilely against the wire.
“Damn it—it’s covered with some fucking resin coating.” His biceps bunched as he rammed the knife back and forth in a frantic sawing motion.
Ten seconds and counting.
Sweat dripped from Thigpen’s forehead.
In a frenzied effort, he pressed his weight into the motion.
Five seconds.
Like paper against stone, nothing.
Four seconds.
“Come on, you son of a bitch.” Thigpen.
Blade reached with his free hand and pulled the wire taut.
Three seconds.
With his entire body thrust into the action, Thigpen rammed the knife in a savage swipe across the iron–willed wire.
Two seconds. Brandy’s pulse roared in her head as Blade turned to her, his face twisted in anguish. “Brandy—”
The world stood still.
Then all at once the wire ripped apart.
The timer stopped blinking
Thank God, the timer stopped blinking.
Brandy’s heart thundered, then seemed to stop. Her hands shook.
Blade collapsed onto his back, arm draped over his forehead.
“Well, hell, we’ve got one second to spare.” Thigpen dropped back on his haunches and huffed out a breath.
“Jesus Christ,” Blade hissed. He pulled Brandy down, his strong arms wrapping around her, bringing her against the heat of his body. She crumpled against him and waited for her heart to start beating again.
****
By the time Blade hobbled out of the powerhouse alongside Brandy and Thigpen, the raging fire in his thigh had numbed. He glanced around. Outside, the fog had lifted, revealing the LCCS chopper, which had settled on an open grassy spot just south of the dam. A Blackhawk hovered above, military personnel descending by rope from its underbelly.
Thigpen placed a hand on Blade’s shoulder, stopping him. “How’s that leg?”
Without answering, Blade looked around. Swarms of officials, SWAT Deputies, and government officials had entered the chase to round up the Neo Nazis, many of whom had fled into the forest. Off to the northwest, Blade noted another chopper, circling near the top of a rise—over Coogan’s residence. Most likely his departure taxi. No doubt he intended to put as much distance as possible between himself and Idaho, USA. Probably an international border.
A tremor vibrated Blade’s chest. He closed one hand around his holstered Glock, the other clinging to the AK–47 that Thigpen had supplied. One way or another, he would stop Skip Coogan.
“Your leg.” Brandy dropped to her knees. Her hands shook as she tentatively removed the blood soaked material and inspected the torn flesh in his thigh. “Damn, Beringer, this is serious.”
Thigpen kneeled down, examined the wound, and then ripped another strip of fabric from Blade’s pants. “The bleeding has almost stopped. Direct pressure ought to do it until you get to the hospital.”
Dizzyness struck. Blade sucked in air as Thigpen tied the compress in place over the hole in his thigh.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Brandy said, still trembling. “We’re getting you to the sheriff’s chopper and heading for Emergency.”
Ignoring what she was saying at the moment, Blade dwelled on the fact that Brandy was safe, alive, fussing over him. And she’d said she loved him. His heart swelled. They’d beaten the odds. They had a chance to make a life together. But first, he had a job to do. He squared his shoulders.
“Coogan is not getting away.” In a gimpy lope, Blade ran toward the chopper, but no way in hell was he headed for the hospital.
****
Minutes later, the LCCSD helicopter swooped down in a clearing near a ridge overlooking Lake Shoshone, close to Skip Coogan’s rambling, not–so–humble abode. The moment it touched down, Brandy, clinging to Tonya’s rifle, jumped out ahead of Blade. While he and Rambo followed on her heels, she tried not to think about how much blood he’d lost. She wanted to tell him to stay back, but she knew she couldn’t and that he wouldn’t. All she could do was stick with him, yet she heard herself say, “Let me take point.”
It was like talking to the wind.
They tromped a pathway that wound through a forest of aspen and fir trees cloaking the house. Blade, toting the AK–47, somehow managed to keep up with her. The sound of Skip’s get–away taxi thrummed on the opposite side of the property. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Leaves rustled and branches swayed. Brandy forged on and prayed Blade wouldn’t drop from exhaustion. He stuck to her like a magnet and then kicked up the pace, pressing her forward.
Skip’s house came into view, as did the ground–hovering chopper. But Brandy’s gaze suddenly caught sight of and locked on the man himself. The man sprinting toward the waiting bird. Her pulse slammed into overdrive. Coogan wasn’t getting away this time.
Rifle ready, she took aim. Her heart pounded. Her trigger finger itched. But Blade lunged in front of her and zeroed in on Coogan, who at the same moment reached the helo and vaulted into the open doorway.
Brandy hesitated. Her FTO had a wager in this battle as well. Deferring to Blade, she held her breath and her fire.
Blade swayed, the weight of his rifle taking its toll. The weapon dropped to the ground. Instantly his Glock came out. He staggered. Steadied his aim.
The bird started to lift, Coogan silhouetted in the doorway.
Blade wobbled, fired. His shot went off side.
“No! You’re not getting away!” Brandy aimed at t
he rotor blades as the craft started to lift. She squeezed off a round. Then another, and another. Sparks flared. Shells zinged against metal. The bird sprouted a fiery halo. Sputtered. Tilted. It whined a song of defeat, the thwack–thwack turning to flop–flop. A second later, the chopper’s belly smacked the ground, the earth vibrating as the machine crashed like a giant eagle with broken legs.
While flames plumed into the air, Skip jumped ship and took off running.
“I’ll get him,” Brandy yelled.
Of course, her FTO, operating on minus umpteen pints of blood and with a gaping hole in his thigh, half–sprinted, along with Rambo, ahead of her.
Shit! Brandy stalked after Super Hero and the Wonder Dog.
By the time she closed the distance and moved in to back up Blade, he and Coogan stood, facing each other, separated by twenty–five feet of sultry Idaho fauna and—if the look on their faces was any indication—a shitload of regrets.
Rambo crouched at Blade’s side, a mass of controlled tension ready to pounce, waiting for Blade’s command. Brandy’s heart went out to Blade as he faced the man he’d admired for so many years. A smug–mouthed Coogan seemed less ruffled than he should have been, perhaps betting on Blade’s loyalty, which he no longer deserved.
“Call off your dog, Blade.”
Blade swayed. “You’re under arrest, Coogan.”
From her vantage point behind the cover of a Douglas fir, Brandy watched, her heart twisting. Could Blade bring himself to shoot Coogan if it came to that? Did he have enough blood left to remain conscious and aim straight?
Coogan’s gun hand hung at his side. His gaze dropped.
The next instant his attention zeroed in on Rambo.
In a snap of the wrist, his arm raised.
Brandy’s finger automatically squeezed the rifle’s trigger.
Bam! Bam!
In tandem, two shots exploded.
Coogan dropped.
Brandy stood, staring straight ahead, Tonya’s rifle pressed bruise–tight against her shoulder.