by Blair Howard
Five minutes later I felt her hands on my shoulders. I hadn’t heard her approaching. She nuzzled my ear, whispered quietly, too softly for me to understand the words, but I knew what she was doing, and I loved her for it. I put my hand on one of hers, brought it to my lips, and kissed her fingers. Then I stood and led her back into the house. The rain had begun to fall harder and I heard the rumble of thunder away to the west. If it kept up, it would soon be a storm, and I began to wonder if it was an omen, a warning. Maybe I should call it off.
No. Not a chance in hell.
Chapter 17
Thursday Mid-Afternoon
When we reentered the house, Kate and Bob were sitting together at the kitchen table over coffee, heads together, talking quietly. Jacque was at the machine making a cup for herself. She looked around when we came in.
“You two want some?”
“I’ll take a cup,” I said.
I walked to the kitchen counter and looked at the weaponry laid out there: two Tavor semi-automatic rifles; two Heckler & Koch VP9 semi-automatic hand guns (mine); two Sig Sauer .45 model 1911s with a half dozen extended mags that held twelve rounds apiece, (Bob’s); a Glock 19 and a Glock 26 (Jacque’s); Kate’s Glock 26, and another VP9 that I’d insisted she carry.
There was also a four-unit, Eartech wireless communication system, my expandable baton, and Bob’s cut-down ball bat, four tactical vests, suppressors, and extra mags for all of the weapons. All of them, except for the two Tavors, were loaded with sub-sonic rounds, or at least they should have been. I knew mine were, but I needed to make sure everyone else’s were too.
“Hey.” I looked around. “What are the spare mags loaded with?”
“Subs, of course,” Bob answered. “But I don’t need them.”
Jacque looked up from the sugar bowl, “Subs? What are subs? And why doesn’t Bob need them?”
“Subsonic ammunition,” I answered. “We’ll be using suppressors—silencers.”
She blinked at me.
“Okay, here’s the short version. Most nine millimeter and smaller caliber bullets travel beyond the speed of sound. They break the sound barrier when they leave the weapon; that’s why a gunshot is so loud. Suppressors muffle the noise of the exploding gases within the weapon, but they have no effect on what happens after the bullet leaves the muzzle, on the sonic bang. So you might as well not use them. The speed of sound at sea level is 1,125 feet per second; most smaller ammo travels at speeds faster than that. Subsonic rounds are designed to travel at speeds of less than 1,000 feet per second: no sonic bang. Bob doesn’t need them because he’s using 230 grain .45s that travel at 850 feet per second. Subsonic.”
“Ohhh-kay. Sorry I asked.”
I grinned at her. “No problem my exotic Caribbean friend. Glad to be of service.”
She grinned at me, handed me the cup, then went to sit down at the table.
“And don’t think it’s like you see on the movies, either,” Bob said. “That phut-phut-phut is a load of crap; it’s more like a loud firecracker. Harry, have you not had her shoot one of those things?”
“I never thought she’d need to.”
He rose to his feet, went to the counter, and picked up one of the Glock 19s and a suppressor. He screwed it onto the barrel and handed it to her.
“Here, check it out,” he said. “Tell me what you think.”
She hefted it, took a two-handed grip on it, then raised it and aimed it the kitchen clock.
“Hey,” she said. “How do I aim it? The suppressor blocks the view through the sights.”
He looked at me. “See?” he asked. “You should’ve had her fire it.” He grabbed his jacket and a half dozen loaded mags, and tilted his head toward the door. “No time like the present. C’mon.”
The rest of us watched them head outside. The weather had changed yet again and they took shelter from the misting rain under the pool house canopy, not too far away from the still-shattered door where we gathered to watch. In fact, they were still close enough that I could hear them talking.
Bob took the Glock from her, slammed in a mag, handed it back to her, and pointed to a small tree some thirty feet away to the right. Its trunk was maybe eight or ten inches thick. “That’s your target. The trunk. Away you go.”
She racked the slide, took up her stance, sighted down the barrel, then shook her head and lowered the weapon.
“I can’t see anything past the suppressor. How do I do it?”
“Line of sight and instinct,” Bob answered. “Try it.”
She fired five shots. What little noise they made was lost in the swirling mist and drizzle. She missed all five times. Afterward she lowered the weapon and looked sideways at Bob, frustrated.
“Show me,” she said, handing him the Glock.
And he did. He didn’t bother with a two-handed grip. He snapped five shots off as quick as he could pull the trigger. Every one of them was a hit. And not only that; even from where I was standing I could see that the group was tight, no more than six or seven inches in diameter.
She stood open-mouthed. “How did you do that?”
“Point at the tree with your finger. Yes, like that. Don’t try to be precise. Let your instincts take over. Like this.” He swung the weapon up quickly and snapped off another shot. Bark flew off the little tree trunk.
“Here.” He handed the Glock back to her. “Try again. Don’t try to sight it. Point and look over the top… no, both eyes open. Squeeze.”
She fired the final four rounds in the mag. Two of them missed, but two clipped the trunk.
“Yes!”
“Good. Now do it again.”
And she did. She wasn’t great, but by the time she’d emptied the sixth mag, she was hitting the tree one time out of three.
“You know,” Bob said as he came back into the house, “if those suckers are wearing vests, these subs will bounce off them like peas.”
“I know, but what’s the alternative?”
He shrugged. There was no alternative.
I looked toward Jacque, standing at the kitchen counter reloading the empty mags, then I looked at the kitchen clock. It was after five. Sheesh, still seven more hours.
And the time dragged, and dragged, and…. By nine o’clock I was getting really antsy. August and Rose had retired early; Rose was still a mess, and I wasn’t feeling too chipper myself.
I couldn’t even have a drink. If we got picked up with a car full of firearms and drink on our breaths—well, you can imagine, right?
I couldn’t eat, either. My guts were in knots. Scared? Not hardly. Was I worried? Hell yes I was. I was worried my friends were going to get hurt, or worse. Fearful? You bet. I’d learned a long time ago that a healthy dose of fear could keep you alive. Idiots who know no fear tend to be the first to die. But I don’t think it was fear that was playing hell with my gut. I think it was anticipation.
By ten o’clock I was sitting outside, under the canopy, listening to the rain and drinking what must have been my tenth cup of coffee. I was wired, tight as a damned drum and antsy as a Jack Russell terrier on steroids.
Speaking of Jack Russells, I wonder how Merry’s getting along at the farm. Merry is…. Nah, that’s a whole ’nother story.
I tossed what was left of the coffee out into the rain. I gotta quit drinking this stuff while I still can; I’ll be up all night. Wait, what the hell am I thinking. I am going to be up all night. I grinned at the thought, got up from my seat, and walked through the rain back into the house.
By eleven thirty I had calmed down and changed into my gear: black jeans, black T-shirt, black Lowa Renegade boots. The time was just about upon us and I felt… excited? No. I was calm, at peace. I was ready.
Chapter 18
Thursday Evening, Late
They were all waiting for me in the kitchen. Amanda was seated at the table. She was pale, but there was no sign of anxiety on her face. There was no sign of August and Rose, either.
Both Kate and Jacq
ue wore black North Face Isotherm tights and tops. Bob was also in black, and already in his tactical vest.
“Let’s get kitted up,” I told them.
I went to the counter, and was joined there by Kate and Jacque; Bob remained seated at the table.
I picked up one of the Tavor semi-auto rifles, hefted it. It was short, even stubby compared to an AR. I fitted one of the over-the-barrel suppressors to it, and nodded—the profile of the gun was little changed. I set it down, donned my vest, and then fastened the lightweight utility belt around my waist. I attached six-inch suppressors and Surefire LED laser sights to my two VP9s and slid them into their holsters. Not quite as comfortable as I would have liked, but it would have to do. Finally, I grabbed a couple handfuls of plastic cable ties and stuffed them into my jeans pocket.
Kate and Jacque went through the same routine. We all had belt and ankle holsters. We each had two double-magazine holsters on our belts, one on each hip. These we filled with spare mags. Kate clipped her badge to her belt. She looked up and caught me looking at her.
She shrugged. “Can’t hurt, can it? And if we run into the locals, it might do us some good.”
Finally, I handed out the wireless communicators, clipped my Talon baton to my belt, slid a small Maglite into one pocket of the vest and a unit of Freeze+P into another. I was as bulked up as a body builder after a month on steroids.
I turned from the counter, leaned back against it, crossed my ankles, folded my arms—not an easy task over all the hardware—and looked at Bob, who was still sitting at the table.
He grinned at me. “What the hell do you think you look like?” he asked. “You look like friggin’ Rambo. And the two Charlie’s Angels…. Well, you both look lovely; there’s no denying that.”
I glanced sideways at them. He was right about both of them, even in tactical vests. “Are you coming, Donatello?” I asked him. “Or have you decided to stay here?”
He gave me one of those “are you kidding me” looks, and said, “I’m coming, I guess.”
He stood up, stretched, yawned, and then proceeded to load himself up. By the time he was done, he had little room to talk about the way I looked; Bruce Willis would have been proud of him.
“You sure about no night vision?” he asked.
I nodded. “Too bulky, and if we’re surprised they could be more trouble than they’re worth. Once we’re inside, I think we’ll be fine. The streetlights will help, at least on the ground floor. We’ll take Maglites to use in the stairwells and other dark areas.”
He nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Okay,” I said quietly. “This is it, people. We, just the four of us, are it. No matter what, I will not call for outside help, not even the local cops. I don’t want to get anyone killed. So….” I looked around, at each in turn, ending with Jacque. “This is your last chance to pull out. Jacque?”
She shook her head, her lips a tight, thin line.
I looked at Bob and Kate; both shook their heads.
“All right then,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
They nodded, and then trooped out to the garage, leaving me with Amanda.
She stood, took two steps forward, wrapped her arms around my neck, kissed me, pushed me away, and said, “Be careful.”
I nodded, brushed her lips lightly with mine, then said, “Bye. See you later.”
“You’d better.”
Chapter 19
Friday Morning, Very Early
The drive to Cleveland was uneventful, and uncomfortable.
It was almost one thirty when we arrived at the junction of South Lee and Third. The streets were deserted. It was raining just enough to keep the windshield wipers running.
I was already antsy. We needed to get off the streets. If we got stopped there’d be hell to pay, and I didn’t breathe easy until Bob turned off the Jeep’s lights and swung into the parking lot at the Old Woolen Mill. Two seconds later we were safely tucked away under the big tree, close to wall of the building, and inwardly I heaved a sigh of relief.
Bob rolled the windows part way down, turned off the engine, and we sat quietly—listening, and waiting see if we’d been spotted. We hadn’t been, and under the tree, in the dark the way we were, it was unlikely that we would be. Still, I figured it couldn’t hurt to wait and see, at least for a few minutes. It wasn’t as though we had an appointment.
“Okay, people. Ears on and test….” One by one we spoke into the Eartech system. All was in order. “Good. Do not turn them off under any circumstances, and when I call for you to check in, respond immediately.”
Somehow, under all the gear I was wearing, I managed to twist in the seat and face the two women in the back.
“Ready?” I asked. They both nodded. “We’ll be going in blind, so stay close and tread carefully. The exterior is a minefield of junk and debris.”
I looked out of the car window. It was one miserable night. From where we were, the visibility at the rear of the building was next to nothing. There were a couple lamps on the north end, but beyond that, all was blackness.
I opened the car door, stepped out, slipped the strap of the Tavor over my shoulder and let the weapon hang loosely in front of me. I put my back against the wall and listened. Nothing. I nodded at the car. The doors opened, and they joined me one by one.
I slung the Tavor over my shoulder, and pulled one of the VP9s. I didn’t need to rack it. It was loaded with sixteen rounds.
“This way,” I said, leading the way east to the end of the building. I peeked around the corner—nothing—and then slid sideways onto Bellweather Lane.
It was slow going. The lights on Bellweather led us only a few yards before we were once again engulfed by almost total darkness.
For what seemed like an hour, we worked our way south along the rear of the building. Bellweather gave way to the two-story addition, which we circumnavigated with little difficulty, and then we were at the big steels doors.
“The window is maybe fifteen or twenty yards that way,” I said. “Gimme the bolt cutters.” I waited, but no one said a word.
“Well?” I hissed.
“I left the damn things in car,” Bob growled.
“Holy Mary—go get ’em, for Christ’s sake.” And he did, and we waited, trying to shelter from rain in the lee of the steel door. Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait long.
“Here you go,” he said, seemingly not the slightest bit perturbed.
I snatched them from him, and immediately regretted my impatience.
“Calm down, Harry,” he said. “We’re cool. There’s no one around.”
“You don’t know that,” Kate hissed. “Harry, I don’t like this. If they’re here, they’re bound to have people on watch; I would, and I know you would, and my recollection of Shady is that he’s nobody’s fool. Hell, he might even have cameras installed.”
Yeah, I thought. She’s right. And they’ve done wonders with night vision technology lately. Oh well, there’s nothing we can do about that now. If he does have lookouts, or cameras, they already have us. If not….
“There’s nothing we can do about it now. We either go ahead or we quit. You can do as you like, but I’m not quitting.”
I holstered the VP9, shoved the Tavor to my back, shouldered the cutters, and continued working my way along the wall to where we’d found the pile of blocks.
We must have gone ten yards beyond where the blocks should have been before I realized they were missing.
My blood ran cold. I stopped dead, whirling around to double check. Yep, they were gone. And that could mean only one thing. Someone had seen us.
“Shit,” I said. “They’re expecting us. Back up guys. Back up.”
A couple of minutes later we were back on the concrete pad outside the steel doors, our backs jammed against the brickwork.
“Now what?” Jacque asked. She sounded calm. Inwardly, I smiled.
Funny how, when people come under extreme stress, their whole psyches change to
cope with the situation. This girl is doing okay.
“Okay,” Bob said. “There’s no way we can reach that window without something to climb on, and if they know we’re here, they’re probably lying in wait for us inside. So what do we do now?”
Right at that moment, I had no idea. This was no movie; it was real life.
“Just hold still for a minute,” I said. “Let me think, and listen.”
And listen I did, but all was quiet. The rain had stopped. Only the soft drip, drip of droplets falling from the rusted gutters almost a hundred feet above our heads disturbed the stillness. I glanced down the side of the building, to where the concrete blocks had once provided access to the huge window, but it was too dark to make anything out.
Like Bob had said: we would not be going through that window. I looked to my left, at the lock and chain that secured the pedestrian door.
Jesus, those links must be a half-inch thick….
“Here,” Bob whispered. “Gimme those cutters.”
“What for? You’ll never get through that chain.”
“Wanna bet? Forget the chain.”
I handed them to him. He opened them and set them on the hasp of the lock. I shook my head. The lock was old—hell, it looked like it had come with building—but it was big, and the hasp was almost as thick as the chain.
No way.
He took a deep breath, and then another, and then he applied force. His biceps bulged under the vest; he put his head back, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and, with a snarl a tiger would have been proud of, he strained and—
Bang! The hasp gave with a crack like a rifle shot. He dropped the cutters, drew one of his Sigs, and dropped to one knee, searching the blackness for any sign that someone had heard the lock break. I stepped back against the wall, and so did the women, and we waited, holding our breath, listening: nothing.