“Sounds like a trick,” the large man on the beam said. He leapt down, landed on his knees and scrambled to his feet. “And I don’t like it one bit.”
Moody wanted to turn, but an explosion broke the peace. The wooden panel of the wall splintered as the bullet blasted through from the outside, and the echoing blast of the gun seemed to come after the bullet had met its target.
Moody knew it was all over, one way or another.
He clenched his eyes shut and hoped for the best.
Chapter Eighteen
The brother from the beam had no sooner spoken than the bullet had struck his chest, sending him crashing to the floor. Only moments later—although it felt to Moody as if it had happened at exactly the same time—the barn’s front door was flung open, and the SWAT team entered in single file.
“Get back!” Jack screamed, firing blindly at the agents who were now leaping for cover. Jack, however, was going for the back door, disappearing out of sight while he had the chance, abandoning his brother.
Sheriff Moody felt as though he were in the middle of a battlefield, but he wouldn’t let fear seize him. Not now, after all his years in the service. He spun on his heel and picked the shotgun, which the brother had dropped as he’d taken the bullet, up off the floor. While he was kneeling, he quickly felt for a pulse, didn’t find one, and then took off after Jack.
Two down, one to go.
The air was surprisingly hot outside, or maybe it was just him. The moonlight lit the path in the cornfield where Jack had run, making it easy for the sheriff to follow. Praying that Jack wasn’t hunkered down in the field and ready to shoot, he dashed onward with the shotgun held across his chest and his finger coiled around the trigger.
He soon hit a clearing, where Jack was limping on a wounded leg. Did he get shot? Moody glanced at the ground for any sight of blood, but it was too dark to see. Instead, he raised the shotgun and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Stop right there!”
By some miracle, Jack did in fact stop, turning around and holding the gun out at Moody. “You could have just let me go, Sheriff. I’m gonna die anyway.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Moody said as he pictured what kind of guy might invoke such fear in a grown man. “We can help you. Just come quietly to the station.”
“What, so I can die there instead? What difference does it make if I die right here or a mile up the road?” He started to lower the gun, but raised it again as if it had been an accident. “I want your help, Sheriff, but I don’t believe that you can do it.”
Although it didn’t seem that way, Sheriff Moody was winning him over. He could feel it. All he needed to do was convince him that he could offer protection—real protection—and he would come quietly. “We can do it, Jack. But not if you don’t cooperate to the absolute fullest. Now, listen…” Moody sucked in a deep breath, then lowered the shotgun. “This is a gesture of faith. You can shoot me if you like, but I’m giving you my word, as a gentleman, that your surrender will change everything.”
Jack paused for consideration and tightened his grip on the pistol. It was as if he didn’t trust the move. Like there was some ulterior motive. There was a beat of silence—an awful, unpredictable moment where anything could happen. He lunged forward like an attacking viper and pointed the weapon in Moody’s face.
Chapter Nineteen
“Hold your fire.”
Sheriff Moody couldn’t quite see Agent Bryce through the tall rows of corn, but he could hear his commanding voice coming from the other side. Moody watched Jack lower the weapon before taking it from him gently. “You made the right choice, son.”
Jack put his trembling hands on his head in submission. “I’m going to die for this, I just know it.”
Moody didn’t want to believe him. “Just keep your head up and stay humble. You’ll be looked after.” He escorted Jack through the cornfield, walking behind him and watching his every move until they emerged from the tall rows of corn.
They stepped out onto the road, where a number of cars with flashing cherries blocked all access in or out of town.
“Look!” A skinny reporter turned toward them and brought the attention to his colleagues (although they were more likely rivals from separate newspapers). They flooded toward him while pulling their cameras to their faces. Some had notepads in their hands and demanded a few words, while others just pushed and shoved.
“It’s best to not speak,” he told Jack, who nodded in agreement.
They walked on, the reporters dividing to make a path for them. Moody felt like Moses parting the waters, and his success made him feel that way, too. Fifty or so yards across the road, he could see Deputy Reynolds turn and watch him with a look of relief and… pride? Moody didn’t know exactly what it was, but it certainly looked like pride.
“Congratulations, Sheriff,” said Agent Bryce while his men took Jack into custody. They escorted Jack into a nearby FBI car, and he shot a scared look back at them.
Moody tried his best not to let that look haunt him. He shook Bryce’s hand and tried not to grin. After all, he had won the pissing contest. “He turned himself in, Agent.”
“He did?” Bryce raised an eyebrow.
“Yup. And I want that on the record. I promised him safety from this fella you spoke about. This… Little John.” Moody removed his hat and wiped his forehead with his arm. “Who is he, anyhow?”
“That’s classified,” Agent Bryce told him with a smirk and a wink. It was obvious that he got a kick out of saying it, too. “I’ll be in touch.”
Sheriff Moody turned to see that the press was all over him, engulfing him in their hungry need to hear his first words. He glanced over to Deputy Reynolds, who was standing with one foot in the car. He was still smiling as he tilted his hat, a sign of respect well known across Cutthroat County.
“Well then.” Moody cleared his throat, knowing that his next words would have a huge impact on what people thought of him. “Any questions?”
Chapter Twenty
Deputy Reynolds poured the kettle water into the mugs, filling them up as a waft of instant coffee kissed the air. “I am proud, Sheriff. I think you did good.” He turned and handed him a mug.
Sheriff Moody sat forward and took the coffee with thanks. “Well, I appreciate that.”
For a moment there was silence while Moody sniffed at the mug, and Reynolds took shy sips from the scalding coffee.
“Say, what happened to that money?”
“What money?” the sheriff asked.
“The money the Rambo brothers stole.”
“Oh.” Moody set the mug down and stretched. “It’s gone back to Tricky Ricky, I suppose. The feds were dealing with it, and Ricky hasn’t been in here complaining. So, I guess he must have gotten it back.”
Deputy Reynolds nodded. “You know what you’ve done now, though?”
“What’s that?”
“Well, now the people have seen how helpful you can be, and they’re gonna be expecting a higher standard. P’haps you can retire,” he grinned, “or you can try to organize them, picking and choosing who to help.”
“Why would I need to pick and choose?” Sheriff Moody stood and picked up his hat, neglecting the drink that had just been made for him.
“Because… you can’t spend all day rescuing cats from trees.”
Moody chuckled. “Prob’ly not. But there’s a third option.”
Reynolds looked up to see the sheriff putting on his hat. “Which is?”
“I can do my best.” With that, Moody picked up the keys to the cruiser and tipped his hat, leaving a striking impression in his wake.
Epilogue
Although Charlie was making good progress in his recovery, he couldn’t help but note the handcuff linking him to the hospital bed. At the time he’d been bleeding out, he was certain he would rather have gone to prison than die. Only now, knowing that he was safe, he didn’t want to go to jail either.
Just as he was starting to rela
x, the door opened and light from the hallway flooded in. At first, Charlie thought it would be one of the FBI agents keeping guard. After all, it was nighttime, and visitors simply weren’t allowed in. But the figure standing in the doorway was bigger than any of the agents he’d seen, bulkier. It was a man.
“Charlie,” the man said.
He knew the voice now, and he swallowed a dry lump.
“Charlie, you let me down.” The man entered the room and closed the door behind him. They were alone now. Just him and his employer, and his slow, intimidating footsteps. “I can’t tolerate such failure.”
Shaking now, Charlie saw Little John’s expression, even in the dark. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he really was. “Please, have mercy. I’ll do anything you want.”
“Oh, I believe you.” Little John patted Charlie’s leg, gripping a little too firmly. “I saw that sheriff of yours on the news. What do you know about him?”
“What—” It made no sense to him. “What do you want with the sheriff?”
Little John smiled, showing crooked yellow teeth and large dimples—the kind of dimples that made a man look like he were up to no good. “You’ll see.”
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About the Author
Adam Nicholls has been creating stories since before he could legally drink. Inspired by the works of Stephen King, Karin Slaughter and Gillian Flynn, Adam starts writing each new book by asking himself how best to shock his readers.
In his non-writing life, Adam is a bibliophile and avid collector of anything made from paper (utility bills included). He loves warm nights, good wine and the sound of rain hitting the window. Whenever possible, he likes to get out and see the world, visiting one European city at a time in search of inspiration for his next great novel.
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