by J. R. Rain
He growls and edges closer. “You best get gone, lady.”
“I’d be happy to leave. As soon as you tell me where I can find Mitch.”
Renton pokes me in the chest with the end of the bat twice. “I ain’t gon’ warn you ’gain. Git off mah property.”
“Look, Renton. I know you just got out, and you’re still on probation for knocking around a couple of those ‘unclean’ people. I might be able to make things go a little smoother for you if you help me here.”
“How you know all that? Never mind.” He raises the bat in both hands. “Get outta here.”
“What would your mother say if she saw you threatening a woman with a bat?”
Renton snarls and takes a half-step at me, raising the bat higher. I see the feint coming and don’t move an inch. He eyes the Glock on my hip, and the badge hanging next to it. “You lied! You is a cop.”
“I’m not a police officer, Renton. I’m a federal agent.”
“Aww, shit,” he mutters, then swings for real.
I duck and sidestep left. Renton puts power behind his attack like he’s hoping for a grand slam. So much so, he can’t recover from hitting nothing. From the woof of the bat passing by my ear, I think it might’ve decapitated me. Somehow, this guy mashing me in the face with a bat becomes more of a frightening thought than being shot again. He spins around in a pirouette and staggers a few steps away from the house.
“And that’s somewhere between assault and attempted murder of a federal agent, Renton.”
He makes a noise like a hog jabbed in the backside with a branding iron and charges at me, swinging the bat down in a wild overhead chop. My nighttime reflexes are much better than they are in the day―heck, they’re better than human. Far, far better than human. Certainly faster than I ever was. I dart to the right, letting the bat sail past me. Before he can raise it, I grab on with my left hand and hold it down.
“Now, Renton, I believe we got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t you tell me where your buddy Mitch is, and I’ll forget we ever met?”
The man grunts, trying to pull the bat out of my grip, but he’s not moving me much. His eyebrows convey the surprise we both feel, but I manage to keep a straight face.
“The hell?” he asks.
“Renton…” I say in the tone of a scolding mom, and jerk the aluminum bat straight out of his grip. “I’m afraid I need to take your toy away.”
He stares awestruck as I hurl it off into the dark. It lands too far away to see, though the soft clank of it hitting the dirt is obvious―five seconds later. “The hell?” he asks again.
“Your record’s skipping.” I lean toward him. “Where’s Mitch?”
“I ain’t snitchin’ on mah brothers!” He lunges at me.
I grab his right arm, twisting it in a pain-compliance hold. Renton yowls, stooped over sideways due to our height differential as I wheel him around and hurl him staggering at the house. The whole place shakes with his impact; it’s flimsy and he’s… well, not.
He collects himself, goes wide-eyed like he got an idea, and runs for the beat-to-hell pickup―which no doubt has an AR15 or something similar hidden inside. I bet his probation officer would love to hear about that. The warning bell in my head blips a little louder. Yup, he’s definitely going for a gun. No, it may not kill me, but a shotgun blast sure could do a lot of damage to the side of my head.
I catch up to him just as he gets his fingers on the door handle, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him around in a spin. Before he knows it―maybe even before I know it―I have him pinned to his truck. I haul him off his feet and carry him away from the vehicle.
“You’re on probation, Renton. You’re not supposed to have firearms anymore.”
“What makes you think I got firearms?” he gasps, gurgling; after all, his collar is certainly cutting off his air supply. The thing is, he had a good question. How did I know there was a gun in his truck? I am struck, once again, with the possibility that I could have… no, just too crazy. No way I read his mind. No, his intent was obvious. Right? A few steps later, he seems to realize that his feet aren’t in contact with the ground. “What the hell?”
Another good question. I literally had no idea I was carrying the man.
Sweet Jesus...
And since he added a word to his favorite phrase, I’m guessing I got his attention now.
Remarkably, I carry a full-grown man back to his house before dropping him on his feet. Okay, I might have shoved him a little, too. He totters backward, crashing against the wall with a hollow thud. Faster than I ever expected from a man of his size, a combat knife appears in his hand. I lunge in, slap the knife away and clamp a hand around his throat, pushing him up on his tiptoes. He grabs my forearm with both hands, going red-faced from the strain as he tries to pull my grip off his neck.
Ugh. Having a greasy beard covering my entire arm is making me want to hop in the shower.
I’m definitely crossing a policy line here. Roughing up potential witnesses is unethical. But hey, he swung a knife at me so I could’ve shot him. Too much paperwork, plus dead men don’t talk.
Renton gurgles.
“Let me guess… what the hell?” I tilt my head.
His eyes bug out.
I push a little harder so he’s almost off the ground again. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Where. Is. Mitch Gallagher?”
Renton attempts to nod rapidly.
Happy for the opportunity to stop touching him, I let his weight back down and lower my arm. Resisting the temptation to wipe my hand on something takes a lot of willpower.
He coughs and wheezes. “Jesus…”
“Not exactly. Come on, Renton. Where’s Mitch?”
“Lookit all this land. Ain’t no one gon’ find your grave.” With a grunt, he swings his ham-sized fist at my face. I almost admire the man’s resolve, perhaps the only thing I could admire about him. Though, I suppose there’s a fine line between determination and stupidity sometimes.
I catch his fist, stalling his attack cold, and squeeze until he screams, but stop before any bones crunch. “You raise a good point. No one will find you or your stupid beard. I don’t have all night, and I’m starting to think you’re not useful. Plus, I’m pretty sure I need to shower now.”
He lunges again, this time trying to grab the Glock on my hip. I sidestep and stomp on the back of his right leg. Renton’s shout of surprise at me moving so fast mutates into a howl of agony. Oh, I probably dislocated his knee. Whoopsie.
The big man crashes down on his chest like the giant falling off a beanstalk. I twist his right arm up behind his back and land on top of him, giving his wrist enough torque that he whimpers.
“Mitch. Now.”
“Okay, okay!” he shouts. “He’s got a compound by Corona. East of the reservoir.”
I add a smidge more pressure to his wrist. “That’s a lot of area.”
“Gah! Head on up past Stagecoach Park. Keep goin’ on Stagecoach Drive alla way ’til it turns into dirt, an’ follow that down ’round to the woods.”
“Now, there. See? That wasn’t so hard.” I let go and back up.
He rolls onto his side, cradling his arm and giving me a malicious stare.
I head over to the pickup. The door’s unlocked, so I reach in and pluck an M16 assault rifle out from behind the seat. Now, how did I know that was there? “I appreciate your assistance. So much so that I probably won’t include finding this little bit of probation violation in my report.”
“They’re gonna kill you, bitch,” mutters Renton.
“Aww. And I thought we had established at least a professional rapport.” I frown at him and check the weapon. Sure enough, loaded with one in the pipe. I drop the mag out and rack the slide to send the chambered round flying, and catch it out of midair. “This is an instant ticket straight back to jail, Renton. You’re not allowed to have these anymore.”
“You can’t just come out and take my shit, break my arm. Damn gub-mint. You gotta play by th
e rules. Gonna be your ass in jail this time,” shouts Renton from the ground.
I drape the M16 over my shoulder, one hand on the barrel, and saunter over to him. “And you’ll tell them what exactly? That I found a loaded firearm on the premises of a felon on probation, or that little old me threw six-foot-seven you around like a small boy? Are you honestly going to admit to anyone that you got beat up by a woman on the small end of average? And cute, to boot?”
He stares at me, no readable expression on his face.
Grinning, I bend forward over him like Tinkerbell. “Something tells me, they won’t believe you.” I stand straight. “Now. Go back inside and do whatever you were doing before I got here. If I see you again tonight, or I think Mitch has received a heads-up that he’s going to have a visitor tonight, this rifle’s going to land on your probation officer’s desk. Do we understand each other? Oh, and I will be back.”
Renton keeps staring at me.
“Good. Have a pleasant night.”
I spin on my heel and walk back to the Momvan. Light scuffing in the dirt and a soft whump tells me he gets up and limps back inside. Here’s hoping he’s afraid of jail enough not to warn his buddies. Still, I should probably move fast.
The rifle lands on the mid-row bench between the kids’ car seats. The loaded magazine winds up in Anthony’s spot. Crap. Don’t let me forget that. I gotta turn it in when I go back to the office. Or not. Maybe this whole side trip will stay hush-hush.
I grab the Thomas Guide from under the driver’s seat and flip pages until I’ve got one showing Corona, California. There’s a nice little spot of green northwest of the city. It starts at Prado Regional Park and follows the hills south to a dense-looking patch of green around the reservoir. A thinner swath of trees cuts northeast, running between Eastvale and Norco.
Hmm. Militia guys like this love their woodlands. Lots of cover to hide in.
Of course, the green spot in the southwest corner is the Prado Reservoir, restricted government land. It’s unlikely they’re inside there or even too close to it. I find Stagecoach Drive and trace it up to the edge of ‘civilization.’ Or, in this case, a dirt road. I can find that. And a square mile or so shouldn’t be that difficult to search on foot, considering I have excellent night vision and don’t get tired from running.
I briefly stare at my hollow shirt in the rearview mirror. You know what else is creepy? My middle finger, two inches from the mirror, has no reflection either.
I shake my head, put my van in gear, and get moving.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Patrol Boat Alpha
My Momvan isn’t quite made for stealth, but I suppose dull brown isn’t the worst possible color to be inconspicuous with.
A thought hits me after a while of driving back west to Corona, that I don’t really need the headlights on. I guess it would be a pile of evolutionary fail if a nocturnal hunter couldn’t see in the dark. Though, I’m not convinced evolution had anything to do with what I’ve become.
Part of me can’t believe I’m doing this, but here I am. While my half-baked plan percolates, I wind up racking my brain, trying to understand why going out here feels like a good idea.
It’s not as though I’ve got any hard proof of Mitch Gallagher’s location, just a wailed statement from a felon given under duress. For cryin’ out loud, the FBI can’t even find him. Though, granted, it’s only been days. Even if they knew right where he was, putting a raid together takes time. And without the belief there’s an imminent crime in need of being stopped, they’re going to be slow and methodical. That’s one thing about the FBI, they don’t even take a dump (as Nico says) unless they’ve filled out all the required forms and arranged a media blackout.
My head swivels back and forth between the road in front of me and the spiral-bound Thomas Guide in the passenger seat. Headlights sail by on my left down the oncoming lanes of the Riverside Freeway, a surprising amount of traffic for after 11 p.m. I make good time on the freeway and cut through Corona’s city center before randomly picking a ‘this looks good’ turn down a street heading north. Eventually, I find West Rincon Street, which I’ve been hunting for. That’ll go straight to Stagecoach. Hmm. There’s a nice little patch of trees between this development and the airport. Maybe I should check that out. Who knows if Renton sent me to the right place? That dirt road might not lead anywhere. So, I swing a left onto Stagecoach Drive and another left into a little section of perfect suburbia.
Wow, these houses are super nice. I wind up parking on Big Spring Court, about as far southwest in the development as I can get.
A retaining barrier blocks off a relatively sharp downhill slope into the forest. I check my Glock, tuck my badge into my back pocket so it’s not glinting in the moonlight, and crouch to leap the fence.
The house I decided to park by perches at the top of a hill, with a long, flat slope descending toward the woods. Other than being unpaved, it looks like someone made a nice road down to the trees… for all of about a hundred feet.
Well, since I threw a rock a couple city blocks and had a doorknob break off in my hand, I have a feeling this vampire deal might come with some perks―at least, at night. I vault the barrier with far more grace than I expected. And far higher, too. So much so that all that grace goes clear out the window and I land like a blind, drunk ostrich on the other side, and fall into a tumble. After I stop rolling at the base of the hill, I lay there for a moment, staring up at the trees and stars, feeling like a jackass.
Next time I try to jump a fence, I will be ready for superhuman legs that can bounce me three times my height straight up.
Right. Time to get serious.
I stand… and spend about twenty minutes roaming around before I’m convinced there’s nothing here. Maybe the racist bastard did give me the right directions.
Back up the hill I go.
The second time I leap the barrier they put up to stop random children and drunks from falling down the hill, I’m way better on the landing part, and don’t even break stride. One light comes on in a nearby house, but no one appears in any window before I hop in the Momvan and drive away. Following Renton’s directions, I turn left again on Stagecoach, and roll to where the road comes to an end. A ‘somewhat paved’ spur to the left leads past a sign welcoming me to Starlight Kennels. That route bends up into a parking lot. No crazy militia idiots there, I bet. Straight ahead, I spot a pair of wheel ruts. Not so much a ‘road’ as it’s where people have been driving in the dirt.
I steer down that way, but stop by a chain-link gate. Following a brief delay to break open a padlock, I’m underway again. Lordy, it was nice to snap that lock open. With my bare freakin’ hands. Sure, it took a little muscle and some serious twisting, but snap open it did. I grin again at the thought and continue on.
A horribly uneven trail rambles downhill, curving to the left and running along the base of the ridge below where that blue sign pointed. Soon, the suburban paradise is out of sight above me, and my Momvan is bouncing and rattling around on a route that probably sees one or two vehicles a month―if that. She’s so not designed for going off-road.
“Sorry, Mama,” I whisper to the van.
The dirt road follows the contour of the raised plateau to the south, heading around to the east past the tip and straight into the woods. I can’t explain why, but this feels like the right place. It also feels like I ought to start being much quieter than a two-ton van.
Hmm.
I slow to a stop, pulling as far off the road as I can without putting the Momvan somewhere it’ll never get out of on its own power. Engine off. Lights off. Okay. Infiltration take two.
This time without tumbling down a hill.
Intuition pulls me into the trees. Moonlight filters down between the leaves, illuminating the wilderness to my eyes. Cracks in tree bark, small rocks, even a creeping rattlesnake stand out as obvious as high noon. The sky isn’t overly clear, so I have a strong suspicion normal people probably couldn’t see
much out here―at least not without night-vision equipment. Hmm. There’s a thought. What do I look like on thermal cameras now? I suppose I’d blend into the background temperature.
Before any depressive thoughts can seep into my mind, I focus on how pissed off I am that Chad got shot… because of me trying to cling too hard to something I can’t have anymore. Me trying to function during the day is like asking an ambulance chaser lawyer to get through a whole trial without lying once. Sometimes, it happens, but it’s a clumsy, flailing mess. And, yeah, I recognize now that I might, just might, be talking about my own attorney hubby.
Focus, Sam.
Chad’s in a hospital bed because of me. And I’ve got to set this right. I also don’t want anyone in the FBI or ATF getting hurt, either. Not if I can take these scumbags out myself. After all, since I seem to have rearranged my relationship with the laws of physics―and bullets―I’m in a unique position to prevent further ruination of lives.
Of course, Gallagher and his people might have some ruining coming their way, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
I creep through the woods about twenty paces left of the dirt road, generally following it. About fifteen minutes after I’d left my van behind, I catch a whiff of man on the air. The smell is one that I would never have noticed before my change, likely something akin to how dogs can scent people. Essence of cheap beer mixes with a fleshy smell, and a bit of sour cheese. Ugh. Dude needs a shower.
My gaze zeroes in on a small bit of motion up ahead, so I freeze in place. At the range course in Quantico, I went through a watered-down version of Army basic training. There, I learned that humans are predators, and our eyesight tracks motion. It’s better to stand still in the open than run to cover when a magnesium flare goes off overhead, turning night into day for a few seconds. Fair bet the man I’m smelling probably doesn’t have flares.
He does, however, have a rifle.
Twenty-ish yards ahead of where I stand statue-still, a potbellied guy in a wife-beater and camo pants appears to have drawn the short straw and got guard duty. He’s drawn the short straw in other ways as well. Genetic ways, that is. This poor guy looks like he’d think ‘what’s five times nine?’ is a trick question or a liberal conspiracy.