He shook all over and sat up straighter behind the steering wheel. "Ah, shit. I get enough of these people at night. I don't need them now."
"So you don't get used to it?" asked Kristee in a wistful voice.
"Some people do." Rick answered. "I'm not one of them, I guess."
"I guess I'm not either." There was another pause. "But I've got to get Sage back. I have to."
"I'm right there with you on that one." "But you're not going to kill anyone?"
Rick sighed. "If it comes down to it, I won't hesitate to kill in order to save Sage. I just hope it won't have to go down that way."
Kristee looked at him. "You know, most people would say that was a fucked-up way to go into a gunfight."
Another snort of laughter. "Well, yeah. On the other hand, most people have never killed anyone, so who gives a fuck what they think?"
Kristee patted her ammunition pockets again. "Well, we'll see if Eps' sandbag shells take down the bad guys." She touched the revolver in her lap. "But I've got this and the heavy buckshot, and I'll use them if I have to."
Rick glanced at his watch. "OK, check your seatbelt, and get your earplugs in. We're one minute from Go."
Rick zipped his jacket, pulled the bandanna over his mouth, and gripped the steering wheel tightly. "If there's one thing I know about Eps, he's a very punctual and very loud person."
"That's two."
Whatever else Kristee might have said was drowned out by an explosion under the gate that slammed the right side back against the fence and sent the left cartwheeling into the air. Rick stretched his jaw to try to clear the ringing in his ears and jammed the truck into gear.
CHAPTER 44
June 10, 1973, Colstrip, Montana
Thunder roared from Rick's left.
It was the drum solo from Louie Bellson's "The Hawk Talks" being routed through the 8-tube breadboard amplifier that Scotty had made and blasted into two PA speakers that Eps had "liberated" from Colstrip Regional High School. Bellson's signature double bass drums made an enormous muttering groan, and the snares and tom-toms ricocheted off the walls of the plant like every caliber of weaponry going off at once.
Then came three enormous slams as dynamite charges took out both of the end fence posts on the north side and rocketed a Port-a-John 20 feet into the air. From the corner of his eye, Rick could see flashes in the high grass on that side as string after string of firecrackers and fulminate squibs went off, and homemade mortars dropped flash-bang grenades into the construction area.
A moment later, there was no time for anything but taking a sharp left turn with all four tires skidding on the smooth asphalt, followed by an equally tight left. The pickup swayed and shimmied but a touch more acceleration brought it out straight, and Rick could see the small, square cinderblock building just south of the smokestack.
Rick hadn't seen it earlier because it had been blocked by two other buildings, so he examined it now. Two stories high, it had no windows on the ground floor and only high glass-brick windows near the flat roof. The single door he could see looked steel-clad, if not solid steel, and had a lever system that rammed metal bars deep into the frame on either side.
“If they've got the same bars on the inside, that's going to be tough to open,” he thought.
"Kristee." He spoke as calmly as he could to combat the jitters from the noise and speed of their approach. "Load those TESAR breaching shells first. Forget the door. We'll go straight in through the wall. I figure we'll need four."
Kristee nodded and slotted the copper shells into her shotgun. Eps had told them that the special rounds hit with tremendous power, but then the slug fractured into a powder making it less likely that anyone on the other side would be hurt, a vital factor until they knew where in the building Sage was being held.
She loaded the remainder of the tube with the pink-colored shells that indicated they were the non-lethal sandbag variety. Then she leaned forward and holstered the big Ruger back of her jeans.
Rick slid to a screeching stop in front of the door and yelled, "Get out! Hit the wall while I jam the door!"
Kristee jumped, and Rick backed up a few yards, slammed the pickup into first gear, and rammed it firmly into the metal door. As he got out of the pickup, he was relieved not to see the cloud of steam that would have indicated a blown radiator. They needed the vehicle to escape.
As he came around the back of the truck, he heard a muffled boom and saw two square feet of the first layer of the cinder block disappear in front of where Kristee stood braced against the recoil of the shotgun held against her hip. She racked the slide and fired the second shot low, and then two more to take out the second layer of cinder block. A two-by-four-foot hole went entirely through the wall.
Rick could hear cement grit and pebbles rattle against his heavy, dark goggles. After a second, he pulled them off, and dropped them around his neck. His own glasses were shatter-resistant, and he wanted his eyes to adjust when he entered the building.
They split up and flattened against the wall on each side of the hole. Rick held up three fingers of his left hand while reaching into the bag with his right. Then he pulled three of the baseball-sized aluminum foil explosives, lit each fuse with his Zippo, and lobbed them into the hole. Handmade by Eps, they were called "flash-bangs" because they had remarkably little concussive power but a stunning amount of light and sound.
Blue light flared out of the hole in the bright sunlight, and a shattering crack was only slightly muffled by the wall; and Rick realized that, as he'd expected, he was deaf. He signaled Kristee by making a fist and jerking it down. Kristee revolved around the edge of the hole, lowering herself into a crouch against the inside wall.
Rick did the same on his side, desperately trying to make sense of the scene through drifting smoke and dust. He heard Kristee's shotgun and only then picked out a man turning toward them with a gun in his hand. When the sandbag hit him in the stomach, his eyes seemed to turn inward, and he looked down and fell to his knees, dropping his weapon as he wrapped his arms across his torso.
Suddenly, the smoke shifted, and Rick could see another man to his left. Just a silhouette in the dim light, he was trying to pull a pistol from his waistband. Rick launched himself up and forward, grabbing the man's gun hand just as he finally got the hammer unstuck from his belt, and began to raise it.
All those hours of working out surged power through Rick's arms and shoulders, and he grabbed the wrist behind the gun with his left hand while the right covered the hammer, preventing it from cocking. His fingers were locked as he spun to his right. The snapping feeling and the accompanying scream told him that his attacker's right arm was either dislocated or broken. He pulled a semi-automatic from the man's limp grip, removed the clip and cleared the slide, and threw it out the hole in the wall. His attacker was a young Indian in the inevitable brand-new western shirt and jeans. His face was pale with pain, and he fell back into a chair clutching his arm tight against his side.
It was only when Kristee shouted "CLEAR!" that he realized he could hear again. He pulled a couple of Scotty's plastic cable ties and immobilized the young man's ankles and wrists. Kristee's opponent was already zipped tight and lying on his side on the floor in a growing pool of vomit.
A young girl screamed from upstairs. It cut off abruptly.
Before the echoes from the scream had stopped, Kristee was taking two steps at a time up concrete stairs along the right wall.
Rick followed. There was a gunshot and chips of concrete spat off the wall at the top of the stairway. Rick lowered himself to the stairs and climbed as quietly as he could to a small landing where the stair turned, and he could stand up and see into the second floor.
Kristee was standing stock still in the doorway at the top of the stairs. Her body was shaking.
A male voice was saying, "Mrs. Whitaker. You have my sincere condolences for the loss of your husband, but please do not increase your pain by forcing me to kill your daughter."
The man he'd heard boasting of the rape and murder of Beth Pine.
Salazar spoke again. "Now, move very slowly, and please raise the muzzle of that weapon so that it points toward the ceiling."
Another voice cut in. Rick recognized Stephen Cloyes' baritone, but the soothing, persuasive tones were gone, replaced by strain and fear. "Vaughn, just kill the bitch and let's get the hell out of here!"
"Calm down, Stephen. We have time." The voice was cutting, decisive. It had the resonance of a military leader in contrast to Cloyes' panic. "Please, Mrs. Whitaker. Point that weapon away from me before I have to do something I would truly regret."
Rick resumed his slow creep up the stairs, moving by fractions of an inch to keep the motion of his head from sparking off the hunter's reflex attention to anything that moved. Only Kristee had spoken during the fight downstairs, so there was a chance they assumed she'd come alone.
Finally, he could see everything.
On the far side of the room, a slim, short man had his arm around Sage's neck pulling her close to his body. He had a pistol—it looked like an old German Luger—pressed against the little girl's temple.
Cloyes was standing in front of a table on the right filled with radios, chargers, and other communications equipment. Behind him was a fire door with a metal panic bar and an alarm bell set near the rear wall.
“Another way out,” Rick realized, “I couldn't see it as we drove up.”
The radio crackled with static and a voice came through, speaking urgently. Cloyes spun around and listened intently, his head down and his eyes closed to concentrate on the fragmented voice coming from the speaker.
Salazar never took his cold eyes from Kristee and pushed the barrel of his pistol harder into Sage's temple. She flinched and a squeak of pain emerged from her clenched teeth. "This is your last warning. Point that weapon up and then put it down, very carefully."
Still trembling with repressed rage and fear, Kristee slowly raised the shotgun to a vertical position and then crouched to place it carefully on the ground. As she did, Rick could clearly see the bulge of the Ruger holstered at her back. Moving slowly and carefully, he reached into the bag over his shoulder, fingers seeking the aluminum foil flash-bang grenades.
"They must have fallen out!" he thought.
Then he felt the thick plastic of the Very pistol. Slowly, he pulled it out and released the safety. The flare wasn't meant to be a lethal weapon—just a signaling device—but anything was better than nothing.
Kristee stood up slowly and softly kicked the shotgun a few feet away.
"Shit!" Cloyes spoke explosively and smashed his hand down on the radio receiver. "All the men are gone! Fucking gone. How in hell did they get stopped by a bunch of damn Indians?"
He spun around. "We've got to get the hell out of here!"
Salazar didn't take his eyes off Kristee. "Calm down, Stephen. You can catch the 2:00 p.m. flight back to Washington. I would love to take you with me, but the Company seems to want me back in Satiago immediately."
He loosened his grip on Sage, and her head came upright as the pressure of the gun barrel eased. "Mrs. Whitaker is a very brave and determined woman. I hope her daughter takes after her. I'll find out when she and I are back in my hacienda.
Rick saw the pistol begin to swing toward Kristee and fired the flare gun. The room filled with white smoke and then a violent green light blossomed from Salazar's shoulder. The flare was jammed into the heavy cloth and a waterfall of green sparks and flame cascaded over the small man.
"Sage! Drop flat!" Rick screamed as he surged up off the stairs and across the room. He heard a gunshot go off almost next to his ear as he slammed into Salazar. He slid his hands up the man's right arm, pointing the gun toward the ceiling as another shot went off, and finally stripped the pistol free and sending it spinning off into the smoke—carrying the tip of Salazar's finger with it.
Rick put all his rage into a solid right to the belly, pushing the power through his hips and using all the muscles in his body. His fist sunk deep into Salazar's stomach, and the man collapsed to the floor. Rick kicked him in the crotch.
The first sound he heard through the ringing in his ears was the door alarm going off. Cloyes was getting away.
Rick ran to the door, flung it open, and then stepped back just as a bullet went sprang off the metal doorframe. He heard a powerful engine start up and looked out. Cloyes was driving a black pickup from behind the building.
As the truck passed under the stairs, he heard the dusty scrape of brakes, and the truck stopped.
“You motherfucker!" Cloyes screamed. "You think you've won? Bullshit! I know where you and your girlfriend live. I'll fuck her and kill her before you can make it back to Washington."
The truck's tires smoked as it fishtailed off and around the corner of the building out of sight. For a second, Rick was frozen, paralyzed with the plans he was making and rejecting. Then he shook his shoulders to release the tension and turned back into the small building.
Kristee was crumpled facedown on the floor with a puddle of blood spreading steadily from her throat.
Salazar had struggled to a sitting position against the wall, feebly trying to pat out the smoking bits of white phosphorus from the flare on his right shoulder. The strained grimace showed his pain, but his eyes never left the small figure directly in front of him.
Sage was standing with her legs slightly spread and her knees bent. The Ruger looked like some enormous cartoon weapon in her small hands. As heavy as it was, it was rock steady, fully cocked, and aimed directly between Salvador's eyes. Tears were streaming down her face, and her nose was running, but Rick could see the furious determination as her finger began to draw back on the trigger.
"Sage," he said calmly and began walking over to her. "Sage. Please wait."
"Mom's dead," she said in a choked voice trying to keep back tears. "He killed her. I'm going to kill him. Don't try to stop me."
"I won't." Rick came up next to her and knelt down. "This guy is a worthless bastard who deserves to die. I'd like to kill him myself. But I'm asking you not to do it."
Her eyes flicked to his face for a second and then back to Salazar's face. "Why? He was going to kill me too. He told me."
"I know. This guy should be dead."
"Then why do you care about him?"
"I don't. I don't give a shit about him. I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire." Rick glanced over. "Which, in fact, he is."
There was a tiny twitch of the little girl's mouth, almost the beginning of a ghost of a smile.
"Sage," Rick reached out and touched her hands softly. "I'm worried about you."
"What?"
"You've heard me at night?" he asked.
"The screaming? Sure, everyone on the block hears you."
Rick gave a snort of laughter. "Yeah, well, I guess that's true. I've got a question for you."
She just looked at him again.
"What do you think the nightmares are about?
The worst ones?" She shrugged. "I don't know. Soldiers trying to kill you?"
He shook his head slowly and tightened his grip on her hands, slowly pushing the gun away from Salazar.
"Not the worst ones. They're about the people I've killed. They're the monsters who come back and live in my head."
The gun slowly came down to point to the floor, and she looked in his face.
"If you kill this scumbag, you'll have to see him in your dreams every night for the rest of your life." Rick took the Ruger from her hands. "He deserves to die, but he doesn't deserve to be inside your head. Not for one minute. Not for one second."
Sage collapsed into his arms and sobbed. Rick held her with one arm and raised the Ruger with the other. "Señor Salazar, Sage doesn't deserve the pain, but I can stand to have another asshole hanging around a
t night, so I would strongly advise you to stop reaching for your gun."
CHAPTER 45
June 10, 1973, Colstrip, Montana
Rick and Sage stood on the hot asphalt and watched the blue and white motor home coming toward them. Sage had pulled away from Rick after a long bout of tears, and Rick wasn't comfortable enough to put his arm around her again.
Rick had zip-tied Salvador into his chair—taking care to run the plastic ties over clothing to keep from leaving marks. He'd tried to explain to Sage that moving her mother's body would mean that the police would come looking for them; and, after a long moment's consideration, Sage carefully knelt on one of the very few patches of floor not covered in blood and stroked her mother's hair.
Rick thought he should join the little girl in some sort of ceremony, but it just wasn't something he could do. After a few moments of silence, he moved around the room trying to wipe down any surfaces that they could have touched.
Finally, Sage stood up and looked at Rick, her eyes clear of tears. "I'm ready to go now."
Without a word, Rick started down the inside stairs to the lower room, checked the two men there to make sure they were still breathing, and led the little girl through the hole her mother had punched in the wall.
The Travco stopped and Eps bounced out, followed a moment later by Scotty.
Eps was ebullient. "We did it! We showed those bastards!"
An instant later, Scotty tapped his shoulder and whispered in his ear.
"Dead?" Eps asked.
Rick nodded.
The engineers stood awkwardly and stared at Sage. Rick could see the struggle between sympathy, sorrow, and a massive inability to show emotion on their faces. Then Scotty stepped up to the little girl, bowed to her height, and extended his hand. "Sage, I'm really sorry about your mom."
Warrior (Freelancer Book 2) Page 26