Cut and Run

by Ridley Pearson

  “Penny!”

  A head of red hair popped up. A boy.

  Sight of the two kids stole his attention as a figure sprang toward him from behind. Larson took the blow to his right wrist and the Glock tumbled free. Fire sprang from that wrist, and he realized he’d been cut. He recoiled, cowered, a flinching reflex to ward off the inevitable. He kicked out with his bent right leg, moving awkwardly because of the limited space. Blind luck connected that blow to the man coming after him. Both men fell away from each other. Larson smacked his head against the short stud wall.

  The four-foot limitation of the crawl space restricted movement to a squatting, crouched shuffle for both men, like crabs attacking each other.

  As his opponent sat up, recovering from the kick, the penlight’s dim beam moved across his face, revealing chemical welts that occluded his right eye.

  Larson knew the razor came next.

  With his gun and its ejected magazine somewhere to his right, Larson started in that direction, but his opponent skillfully anticipated the move and blocked it, placing himself between Larson and the cots. He then lunged at Larson with incomprehensible speed and sprang back out of reach just as quickly.

  Larson’s left forearm went warm and stung. In that split second, he’d been cut again.

  Another darting move, like the flick of a frog’s tongue. Larson’s left leg was bleeding.

  If he stood here any longer, the cutter would pick him apart, one quick cut after another. Larson would go down, not from a single wound but the combination. He’d have his throat slit, and he’d bleed out in a crawl space, where they’d bury him a few hours later. Perhaps Penny and Hope at his side.

  A thought flickered through him: the bad eye.

  Larson feinted to the man’s right-his blind side-freezing him, and then dived toward the cots, somersaulted, and came up with the penlight. He twisted it off.

  Darkness.

  He felt around, hoping for his gun, and came up with a scrap of a two-by-four, nearly puncturing the palm of his left hand with a bent nail. Held from the other end like a baseball bat, the nail then served as a weapon. He lunged and rolled, guessing at a location, hoping to turn the man toward his blind side. Larson swung the board blindly. He missed on the first swing but connected with the second, landing the nail into flesh. His opponent cried out.

  Larson delivered it again, and again felt the nail connect with flesh.

  The razor drew a line down Larson’s left shoulder. All at once, Larson picked up a vague orb of black movement. Light from a front room seeped through the poorly laid plywood flooring.

  Larson kept moving, working toward his opponent’s right. He bumped against the cots. He heard the ruffle of sleeping bags.

  “Stay back!” he hollered, having no idea where back was. “U.S. Marshal!” he called into the dark as he once again swiped the two-by-four in the general direction of the dark shape.

  No contact.

  He rotated to his own left again, his thighs cramping and burning from the awkward stance. He worked toward where he believed the gun had fallen, simultaneously trying to keep Rodriguez from it. But suddenly a sound came from behind him-feet moving impossibly fast. The weight of a man crashed into him. Larson fell forward onto his face. The razor tried to flay his back but hung up in the black windbreaker’s ripstop fabric.

  Larson rolled and swung again. Roll and swing. Roll and swing. The board and nail bounced off either bone or lumber as Larson felt another burn, this time along the side of his right calf, the cut deep and painful. Larson miraculously blocked the next attempt with his left forearm.

  Five or six hot spots on him, all glowing, all bleeding. Crab-walking, he scooted away. He couldn’t afford more cuts-he was light-headed already.

  The cutter sensed an opportunity and attacked. Larson raised the board with both hands and swung. It lodged in the man’s head-his cheek? Neck? He wasn’t sure. The cutter jerked backward and cried out. Slippery with blood, the board came loose in his hands, and Larson lost it.

  Frantic now, without a weapon, Larson furiously patted the ground around him-the Glock had to be here somewhere! He touched rocks and small chunks of lumber.

  The magazine! He pocketed it. Still, no gun.

  Movement. This time to his left. The kids?

  Larson scrambled back, cramping and dizzy. He smacked into the pony wall and tried to collect his bearings. He’d lost all track of his gun.

  Every ounce of him resisted returning toward that razor.

  He paused, the silence suddenly alarming. Larson held his breath and listened in the dark. A girl’s whimpering. The kids had been cowering over by the cots.

  The cutter now had Penny.

  A night-light came on unexpectedly. Blinding him. Markowitz’s grandson, dressed in cowboy pajamas, cowered. But it was he who’d turned it on.

  The cutter was crouched behind an upended cot. He had his left forearm hooked around Penny’s throat. The two-by-four and its bloody nail lay on the dirt floor to his left. The man’s right hand clutched his neck just below his left ear, attempting to plug the wound where he’d taken the nail. It looked arterial. A bleeder.

  The boy continued to cower. Penny trembled in the man’s grasp.

  No one said a word. No one moved. The gun lay a full body-length away, to Larson’s left, over by the boy, not at all where Larson had expected to find it.

  The razor glinted, held to Penny’s neck. One pull across that soft flesh and she was gone.

  But in that dim light, in that instant as they connected, he saw her mother’s eyes in the child, and he ached at their similarity. She was scared out of her mind.

  “Cairo,” Larson said to the child. “You hang tough and I’m going to get you that dog.”

  Those frightened eyes briefly filled with surprise. Relief replaced terror as she looked down to take in the wrist of the man holding her, and Larson knew what that child’s mind had planned as her lips parted and her teeth bared.

  The boy courageously, but stupidly, moved toward the gun.

  “Don’t!” Larson called out sharply to the boy.

  But the kid’s move was to the cutter’s blind side, forcing him to pivot to track the boy. His one good eye flicked back and forth between Larson and the boy. Whether he understood what he was doing or not, the boy had stretched the cutter’s resources thin.

  Occupying no more than a couple of seconds, the boy moved and Penny lowered her chin and bit through to the bone.

  Larson threw a handful of dirt at the one remaining eye as he dived straight forward, never losing sight of Penny, while his right hand clutched onto the nail board. The cutter, reeling from the bite, misjudged Larson, expecting him to go for the gun.

  Larson swung the two-by-four for the cheap seats, driving the nail squarely into the side of his opponent’s head.

  Penny broke free.

  A gunshot rang out. The boy.

  “STOP!” Larson cried out.

  Click, click, went the empty weapon.

  He was atop the cutter now, who lay on his back, the nail board stuck to his head. He pounded his fist down into the man’s disfigured face.

  The razor glinted, but Larson had the man’s wrist pinned. He dared not let go, but the hand moved like a claw, his fingers extended like pincers and, both of their arms shaking from waning strength, the razor twitched and cut into Larson’s wrist. It dug deeper and more painfully.

  Shifting his weight, Larson swung his elbow and connected with the nail board, hammering it more deeply into the man’s temple. The white of the one good eye rolled into the back of the man’s head with each blow of Larson’s elbow against the board.

  He went still, but Larson didn’t trust it. An animal like this could feign unconsciousness. Larson pinned the two wrists, both limp and lifeless. He came higher and dropped a knee into the man’s chest, but saw nothing on his face.

  The razor came loose and fell.

  Larson wanted the gun-the useless gun-wanted to kil
l the guy once and for all. But then he saw two terrified kids staring at him, one his own daughter, and he knew he couldn’t do this in front of them. His vision darkened momentarily, no doubt owing to blood loss. He saw the boy’s terry-cloth robe and belt on the dirt floor.

  “Your belt,” Larson said.

  He heard footsteps above them.

  One, or two?

  Larson tied up the unconscious man’s hands behind his back. The knot wasn’t much, due to the thickness of the cloth tie. He doubled it, then crawled over to the boy and retrieved the gun from where he had dropped it. He quickly tried inserting the magazine, but it wouldn’t stay. The gun’s slide was jammed open as well.

  “Cairo?” Penny whispered. “Mommy?”

  “She’s waiting,” he said. Then he held his finger to his lips and shushed them.

  He moved to screen them from the rectangular hole in the crawl space’s ceiling-the closet floor. Each of his multiple wounds rang out in sharp, hot pain.

  The overhead footsteps hurried toward them.

  Larson raised his open palm, indicating the kids should stay put. He moved to just below the opening, reversing the gun in his hand, its butt held like a blunt, metal club.

  The footsteps stopped, immediately above.

  Larson motioned for the kids to crouch down, and they did.

  He waited.

  And waited…

  Movement from the other side of the hole. Larson imagined a man going down onto his knees, preparing to either jump or peer down inside. He drew the gun back over his shoulder.

  As the man’s head lowered through, and he took a look, Larson waited for him to turn to face him. The head slowly pivoted, and as it did, Larson delivered the butt of the handgun squarely into the bridge of the man’s nose, centered between his eyes. The body slipped through the hole like a sea lion into water. Larson reached for the limp arm and took hold of the man’s fallen weapon as the first of two shots came through the floor from above.

  Both shots sprayed into the dirt.

  More footfalls above, as the man up there took off for reinforcements.

  Larson beaded down the barrel. He picked up the parallel rows of nails sticking down through the overhead chipboard. The hallway. His aim tracked the footfalls fluidly, first catching those sounds, then leading them slightly.

  He popped off two quick rounds. They sounded like loud handclaps. The third round caused a sharp yelp of pain, a collision, and then silence. Neither the kids nor Larson made a sound. No one was breathing.

  From above, a groan.

  Larson led with the weapon and poked his head out the trapdoor. His first chance at standing, his legs throbbed with cramps.

  “Come on,” he ordered the kids.

  “You stay in the closet,” he told the boy as he pushed him up through.

  And then he bent to pick up Penny. His hands touched her little waist. He felt it like an electrical charge. She placed hers on his shoulders.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said as Larson clutched her and lifted her through.

  “Never better,” he said, following her up through a moment later.

  He checked the hallway. The man he shot writhed in pain. He’d taken one in the leg and one in the lower back. Larson tied him up with a lamp cord and left him.

  The boy had peed his pajama bottoms.

  “Shoes?”

  Neither child answered, looking up at him with blank faces. It was mostly fairway. They’d go it barefoot.

  He led them past the two downed guards in the front room, peered outside, and they made a run for it. With shots fired, although far from the manor house, he expected others.

  The three of them running now across the dark fairway, the kids keeping pace, Larson felt sweat reach his wounds. He steered them for the unseen barn.

  He pulled out his phone as they ran. He slowed, allowing the kids to run a ways in front of him. But at that instant the phone’s face lit up-neon blue-and announced the arrival of a text message.

  Hope!

  The sound of a stream grew close. They were nearing the barn.

  Desperate for word from her, he read only a number on the small screen:

  911

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  “Shots fired,” LaMoia reported into his headset. He told those in the van, “The spiders report hearing six to eight shots fired.”

  There was no longer any need to await the AUSA’s warrant.

  “Hampton and Stubblefield. Over the wall!” Rotem ordered. “NOW!”

  All those in the back of the police van had spent the last ten minutes preparing for the raid. Hampton and Stubblefield, already having donned Kevlar vests and radio headsets, were handed white-phosphorus grenades and stun grenades by members of SPD’s elite ERT squad.

  LaMoia said to Rotem, “Say the word and you’ve got twelve of our best special ops on the field with them and two sharpshooters with positions on the lodge.”

  “How long?”

  “Give me seven to ten minutes.”

  “Okay, go, but I want no mistake. Your two spiders and three of my guys are going to be on the ground. No friendly fire. Positive makes or no shots.”

  “Understood.”

  Rotem also directed LaMoia to call up cruisers or patrol personnel and to seal every gate. Anyone attempting to flee was to be detained as a material witness.

  Hampton and Stubblefield took off toward ladders set against the wall. Rotem’s phone rang, and he stuck it to his ear, too excited to hear at first, then stunned by the voice he heard on the other end. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he shouted, too loud for the small confines of the back of the truck. The men went immediately silent.

  “It’s Larson,” he told the group. They’d heard the name bandied about, but probably did not understand the significance of the call.

  “Go ahead,” Rotem barked into the phone, a trickle of sweat rolling down his cheek.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Philippe suspended the auction at seventeen million five hundred thousand, two families having formed a quick alliance across the table and pooling their money to win the witness protection list away from a Reno hotelier unwilling to bid higher. The hotelier’s father, brother, and two first cousins had all died of mob hits, and he believed the names of their killers were on that list.

  Philippe called a ten-minute break, encouraging everyone to try the catered food. He’d done so not out of greed, but because this time one of his own men had interrupted, calling him from the meeting. First Ricardo, now him: embarrassing as all hell. But a few words whispered into his ear convinced him he’d had no choice.

  “We’ve got the Stevens woman upstairs.”

  For a moment he was dumbstruck, the news nearly unfathomable. He had men out sweeping the grounds while the Stevens woman had infiltrated the manor house?

  He rounded the landing on the first floor in time to see outside: Ricardo climbing into the back of a black Navigator. Philippe hurried to get a better look. Katrina was propped up in back wrapped in blankets, her face smeared with blood, her eyes blinking but unseeing. The door shut and the car motored off, Ricardo calling out, “Back gate!”

  “What the fuck?” Philippe asked his nearest soldier.

  “Thrown from a horse,” the man reported.

  More likely Ricardo had been pulled from the meeting because Katrina had been caught leaving him, and this was how he’d punished her.

  “How bad is she?” Philippe knew it then: He’d kill Ricardo.

  “Stab wound right below the tit,” the man said. “Like a fuckin’ machete got her, is what I heard.”

  Philippe climbed the next flight of stairs heavy with concern over Katie’s condition, asking his guy to keep her situation monitored by the minute. He arrived into the empty suite of rooms on the third floor to see Hope Stevens sitting in a comfortable chair. She jammed her hand down into a crack in the chair and Philippe signaled his man over to inspect. He came up with the blue BlackBerry.

  “Y
ou let her keep that?”

  “Keep what?” the young kid said. “I never saw it.”

  “You patted her down?”

  “Of course I patted her down.”

  “But not her crotch, did you?”

  “What?” The man mistook the question, believing himself accused. “Listen, Mr. Romero, I did not in no way touch her in that kind of way.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Philippe ordered him, disgusted.

  Just before the man left the room, Philippe stopped him and asked for his gun. Alone with her now, he stepped closer.

  “You have been one major pain in the ass, Ms. Stevens.”

  She held her head down, her hands gripped firmly, pressed between her legs. “Let my daughter go.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Do what you want with me, but let her go.”

  “Shut up.”

  “She’s a child.” She looked up at him then, her eyes glassy but not tearful. “What’s the point in killing a child? What can it possibly gain you?”

  “There’s nothing to discuss with you. You’ve wasted far too much of my time and resources as it is.” He came around the back of the chair.

  Hope no longer could control herself. Her entire body shook. Her teeth chattered, and she heard herself whimpering. She so wished she could have been stronger at this moment, could have found the words to defend herself and put him in his place, this human monster who was behind her daughter’s abduction, her years of running, her loss of life despite her living. She managed to say, “You took away my life once already.” Then she added the words that were the most difficult of all to say; words she had practiced reciting from the moment she’d been discovered down the hall.

  “God forgive you,” she said.

  At first she thought he’d fired the shot and blown a hole in her head, that somehow she’d transformed herself at that moment, feeling no pain, rising above her own body to hear the gun’s discharge more distant and disconnected, more like a round of fireworks than the last sound she would ever hear.

  But then a flash of light entered the room and she realized she could see that light. More fireworks went off. Only to realize he’d not pulled the trigger. He’d spun around to face the window frozen at the spectacle outside.