Brock agreed. They backed down the promontory, out of view of the farmhouse, and crossed the dirt road, being careful to stay clear of soft sand that would have left footprints. They stopped by their rental car, still hidden behind a low hill, and Sam collected a hit-and-run kit full of handy survival and first-aid items. “Just in case,” she said, slinging the strap over her shoulder.
They low-crawled to the top of the irrigation ditch, being careful to keep their profile low as they crested the top of the stream’s engineered banks.
The irrigation canal was designed to safely contain an Oklahoma-sized flash flood, but it had been a dry fall, and a feeble stream meandered at the floor of the canal, wandering from side to side within the ramrod-straight berms that extended for miles in either direction. Sam and Brock walked south toward the farmhouse, taking care to stay below the crest.
Stalwart surveyed the haggard hostages, wandering around the barn searching for anything that might be useful to help them escape from their predicament.
Their spirits were flagging, he noticed. The barn had been thoroughly sanitized of all of the normal farm accoutrements, and there were no tools or supplies laying around that might be useful as a weapon against their captors.
“What’s up there?” someone asked, pointing to a hay loft above the far side of the barn floor.
“Ladder’s been sawed off,” someone else observed glumly. It looked like a city fire escape ladder, its last remaining rung suspended ten feet off of the barn floor, well out of reach.
A skinny teenager walked toward the ladder. “Can anyone give me a boost up there? I’ll climb up and take a look around.”
Moments later, Stalwart and another middle-aged man kneeled, then helped the kid stand on their shoulders, putting him within a few inches of the ladder’s bottom rung. He hopped, grasped the ladder, and climbed up, soon scrambling onto the hay loft floor. “Stinks up here,” he reported.
The group heard rummaging and an occasional curse from the kid as he searched the loft. “Old fishing pole and a bent-up tire rim,” he finally said.
“Great,” someone said sarcastically. “What are we going to do with that?”
Stalwart looked around the barn, and an idea struck. “Is there fishing line in the reel?”
Affirmative noises from the kid.
“Toss it all down,” Stalwart said. “Believe it or not, I think those things will be helpful.” As the kid struggled with the heavy tire rim, Stalwart explained his idea.
“Watch out for snakes,” Brock admonished, inadvertently slipping into a patch of vegetation where the feeble stream neared the bank of the irrigation ditch.
“Rattlesnakes?”
“Water moccasins. Deadly bastards.”
“Great,” Sam said. “A poisonous snake bite would really round out the week.”
They heard a peal of laughter coming from the farmhouse porch, now a quarter mile to the east of their position.
Sam peeked up over the irrigation berm to get her bearings. “Looks like we’re getting close,” she said. “I’ll sneak up on the porch from the south side of the farmhouse, and you attack from the north.”
“Simple as that?”
“How much more complicated would you like it to be?”
“I thought you’d have a few more words of wisdom.”
“Be sure to click the safety off.”
“Thanks.” Brock shook his head, then kissed her. “If I haven’t told you lately, I really love you in a grossly inconvenient, co-dependent kind of way. Don’t get shot.”
“Me too. And you either.” She kissed him back, slipping him some tongue and pinching his ass. “Now let’s go get those people out of the barn.”
They fanned out, and on Sam’s signal, they crested the berm and snuck toward the farmhouse.
Surreal, Sam thought. It seemed like eons ago that she had climbed atop Brock in his hospital bed in DC. Now she was sneaking up on a group of redneck deviants with a barn full of humans in the middle of Oklahoma. Can’t make this shit up.
She instinctively drew into a crouch as they approached the run-down farmhouse, placing her footfalls slowly and carefully to avoid alerting the three men getting drunk and high on the porch on the opposite side of the house. She glanced to her left at Brock and noticed him moving stealthily as well, though he was visibly pained by the gunshot wound in his thigh.
Soon the house came between them. A large propane tank and a tangle of tall weeds climbing the wall forced Sam to step further away from the house than she’d otherwise have liked, making it harder for her to hide from the men on the porch. She drew her weapon and cocked the hammer, readying her piece for a lethally accurate single-action shot.
Sam reached the edge of the house. Heart pounding, she peered around the corner at the porch. One man on the stairs, one on a swing, and the third in a cheap lawn chair taking a hit from the meth pipe. She saw Brock peeking around the opposite wall on the far side of the porch. He winked. She smiled.
“Freeze, assholes!” she growled, stepping out from behind the wall, Kimber .45 trained on the nearest redneck. “Hands up!”
A shotgun swung around on her.
Pop pop. Two in the man’s chest. He flew backwards down the steps.
Extremely dead, she assessed.
Another pistol report sounded from the opposite of the porch, and Sam saw the fat redneck spin wildly and fall to his knees. Brock had evidently shot him in the shoulder.
A skinny streak of blue jeans and elbows dashed into the house. Sonuvabitch. The scene just got messy.
Sam leapt over the porch rail and bounded onto the wooden floor, being careful to stay out of the line of sight of the door. Brock circled around the front of the porch. “Watch it!” Sam yelled. “One guy inside.”
Brock nodded and snuck through the porch rail beyond the line of sight of the open doorway.
The fat guy with the wounded shoulder rolled over onto his side on the porch. “Stop moving!” Sam commanded.
He didn’t stop. He stretched his arm out to reach for the shotgun that had fallen onto the porch several feet away.
Sam took aim at his elbow. She wanted to leave him with a painful memento that would stay with him for life. She squeezed the trigger, the Kimber barked, and the man howled like a little girl. The hollow-point bullet had cleared out most of his elbow joint.
“Ready for more?” she asked. The man shook his head.
“Then call your buddy out here to chat with us,” Sam said.
“No way, bitch,” he spat, rising to his knees and cradling his wrecked arm in his lap, rocking back and forth in pain.
She laughed, walked over to him, and slapped him across the face hard enough to make her hand hurt. It nearly toppled him over. “Who’s the bitch now?” she taunted.
Brock chuckled, gun trained on the kneeling man.
Sam slapped him again. “Call your friend out here.”
The kidnapper pursed his lips to spit at her, but she backhanded him across the chops again before he could follow through. “I’ve got all day,” she said. “And you’re not nearly as tough as your shotgun fooled you into believing. Now call your friend out here. Now.”
Crack! A loud rifle report seared through the air and echoed off of the large barn wall. Sam was vaguely aware of wood splintering on the porch railing. She and Brock instinctively flattened themselves on the porch, and rolled further out of the way of the door. “Came from inside!” Brock yelled. Sam nodded. Hunting rifle.
Motion caught Sam’s eye. Fatass had lunged for his shotgun, his remaining good arm outstretched and closing around the gun’s stock.
Sam took aim and fired. The round caught Fatass just above the ear. “Say goodnight, asshole,” she said.
Another rifle shot sounded from within the house, and the slug passed clean through the slat-and-plaster wall near the doorway, just inches away from where Sam had taken shelter.
She looked at Brock, on the other side of the doorway opening. �
��Go around back,” she told him, “and meet me on the other side by the propane tank.”
Brock grinned. “I like the way you think.”
Sam blew him a kiss and rolled off the side of the porch, ducking beneath the wooden rail. She crouch-walked back around to the side of the house and ducked behind the large propane canister, anchored on a small concrete pad beneath a window.
She unslung the hit-and-run kit from her shoulder and opened up the contents, fumbling around until she found a utility knife and a set of matches.
She heard the grass rustle off to her right, and instinctively trained her pistol in the direction of the sound. Brock rounded the corner. “Whoa, babe,” he said. “Just me.”
“Just in time,” she said, handing him the knife. “Can you cut through the rubber hose leading from the propane tank into the house? Watch out for the window. I’ll find a rock.”
He gave her a quizzical look.
“Trust me,” she said, walking toward a junk pile at the back of the house.
Brock sawed at the propane hose with the serrated edge of the survival knife, and the hiss of escaping gas grew louder to mark his progress.
Sam heard heavy footfalls from within the house. It sounded like Hunting Rifle was walking toward the back of the home. She quickened her pace, not eager to dodge deer slugs again.
It didn’t take long to find what she was looking for, one half of a shattered cement cinder block, half-buried in the red clay. She worked it free, turning back toward the propane tank just in time to see Brock’s final knife stroke sever the hose.
“Nice work. You’re more than just a pretty face,” Sam said, twisting the handle on the tank’s flow valve until it was wide open and the hiss of escaping gas grew loud enough to hurt their ears. “Ready?” she asked.
Brock nodded.
Sam struck a match and tossed it into the dry grass near the house. She waited for the flame to grow, blackening and curling the dried vegetation, then she hurled the cinder block through the window.
Brock aimed the hissing propane hose toward the flames on the grass. The propane caught fire instantly, turning the hose into a flame thrower, which he aimed into the gaping hole in the window.
The drapes caught fire first, then the wall and ceiling, and before long, the heat from the burning interior had grown intense, forcing Sam and Brock to back away from the wall.
They left the flame thrower on the ground, pointed at the wooden substructure. Then they dashed behind the large UHaul truck for cover, peering around the engine block at the front door of the farmhouse.
Flames licked out the side of the house near the propane tank, and Sam watched through the open front door as the fire spread throughout the house. Won’t be long now.
As if on cue, the third man ran out of the house, rifle in the air, and charged down the porch steps. “Drop it!” Sam yelled.
The skinny man looked around, confused about where the voice had come from, and uncertain about whether he should follow its instructions. “Drop it, asshole!” Sam repeated.
He didn’t.
She shot him in the chest. “Thanks for making it easy,” she muttered as she dashed to kick away the hunting rifle and check the man’s pulse.
Not a man at all, she noticed as she got closer. Punk kid. Face like a rat.
She put her finger on his neck. Nothing. She amended her assessment: Dead punk kid.
“Holy shit, it’s really burning now!” Brock exclaimed.
Sam looked up to see flames engulfing the side of the farmhouse, and she felt waves of heat blast her face. “Let’s get those people out of that barn.”
They dashed to the entrance of the barn. A long wooden beam held the doors shut, sealed in place by a steel strap and secured by a large padlock. Nothing’s ever easy.
“Federal agent!” she yelled through the door. “Hang tight, we’re going to get you out of there!”
She dashed to the dead kid and searched his pockets. No keys.
The other two dead rednecks were still on the porch, a couple of feet away from a wall of flames. Sam cursed, ran up the porch steps, and grabbed the fat corpse’s booted foot, struggling to drag his heft toward the steps before the flames reached her. “Brock, help me drag them down!”
Brock ran to assist, grabbing Fatass’s other boot and dragging him down the porch steps. The gaping wound in the dead man’s skull left long, mottled streaks of blood and brains as his head bounced down the stairs.
Sam searched Fatass’s pockets while Brock hauled the third man down the steps. She found hundreds of dollars in cash, undoubtedly stolen from the barn full of people, a condom (those assholes were forcing sex or paying for it, Sam thought), and three rings full of keys.
She cursed again, and started sifting through the keys one by one, searching for one that looked like it might fit a padlock.
Brock’s voice interrupted her frustrated search. “Think I got it.” He limped over to the barn door, inserted the key, and turned.
The lock yielded.
“Federal agent,” Sam repeated. “We’re here to set you free,” she said as she and Brock hefted the large plank and tossed it aside.
They pulled the barn door open.
Two dozen scared, haggard faces, belonging to barefoot, shirtless hostages, stared back at them.
Sam held up her badge. “Sam Jameson, Homeland Security,” she said.
A tall, athletic, distinguished-looking older gentleman at the front of the crowd met her gaze. “Ma’am, it’s more than a pleasure.”
“Mike?” Brock’s voice behind her.
“Brock? What the…”
“Mr. Charles, I presume.” Sam said.
Mike Charles, Co-Director of the DoD’s Anti Satellite Weapon Program, extended his hand. “At your service, Sam,” he said with a slight bow. “Brock’s told me so much about you. We work together. Or rather, we did. Long story.”
“Small world,” Sam said, shaking Charles’ hand and stepping inside the barn, Brock at her heels. “Everybody okay to move?” she asked, looking around the crowd of hostages, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the barn. “I’m afraid we’ll need to be quick about getting out of here.”
Then she heard a sound that made her heart sink. It came from behind her, outside the barn.
She turned to look, adrenaline slamming through her body.
Twelve-gauge. Black, pistol grip, extended magazine for extra capacity, undoubtedly full of buckshot.
Crowd pleaser, they called it.
Available only to cops.
In the hands of a cop.
Pointed at her.
A crooked, tobacco-stained grin crossed the patrolman’s face. “Ya’ll ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Part III
27
Carter County, Oklahoma
Cognitive dissonance. It’s what the psychologists called it when two ideas clashed inside someone’s head. For example, emblazoned on the cop’s cruiser was the phrase “to serve and to protect.” However, as Sam, Brock, and the crowd of shirtless and shoeless prisoners inside a barn in the middle of the Oklahoma prairie stared at the police officer standing before them, his black police-issue shotgun pointed menacingly, it was hard for them to conjure any notion of service or protection.
Sam took charge. “Federal agent,” she said, holding up her Homeland badge. They weren’t the two most popular words in any beat cop’s vocabulary, but they generally sufficed to encourage cooperation.
But the cop didn’t budge. He stood there, shotgun pointing at them, flickering light from the burning house across the yard dancing off of the shiny objects affixed to his uniform.
Sam cocked her head. “Please stand down, officer,” she said. “I’ve got the scene under control.”
She couldn’t see his eyes through his sunglasses, but the cop appeared to hesitate for a moment, then make a decision.
Or maybe it was just her imagination. Tough to tell.
All the same, her finger moved inst
inctively from the trigger guard of her Kimber .45 and settled on the trigger itself.
“Ma’am, this is a volatile situation,” he said in a slow drawl, the words taking far longer than necessary to mosey out. “So please set yer sidearm down and come on outside.”
Sam shook her head. “Not on your life. Do you need a closer look at my badge?”
“No, ma’am, I can see yer badge fine. But this here’s my scene.”
What the hell? Cops didn’t point weapons at federal agents. Or frightened civilians, rustled up and herded into a barn, for that matter.
Mike Charles caught her eye. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, a look of warning on his face.
“I’m afraid I won’t ask ye again,” the cop said, spitting tobacco juice, his jaw tightening.
Sam recognized the signs on the cop’s face. Mouth drawn taut, jaw clenched. He was getting ready to do something stupid. He thought she was some sort of desk-bound bimbo out for a ride in the country, and he was going to show her what was what. I don’t have time for this.
She saw his trigger hand move. It was all the confirmation she needed. She shot him in the kneecap. He toppled, hollering, shotgun falling beside him as he grasped his wounded leg. “Ye feckin’ bitch!”
“It’s him! He’s one of them!” someone shouted from the darkness of the barn. “I swear it!”
Sam kicked the shotgun away from the cop’s reach.
“That’s a lie,” the cop said through clenched teeth. “I was jes’ called here to investigate a fire.” Improbably, he struggled to stand, jostling an unusually large collection of keys and key chains attached to his belt.
“Stay on the ground,” Sam ordered.
He disobeyed, struggling to his full height, weight on his good leg, hand on the barn door for support.
Sam debated where to shoot him next.
“You’re a murderer.” The powerful voice belonged to Mike Charles. Sam, Brock, and the wounded cop turned to look at him.
Charles nodded to someone off at the side of the barn door, positioned behind the cop, and Sam caught the motion of a pretty girl’s arm yanking hard on something. Fishing line, maybe? Sam wanted to look closer, but something big, black, round, and heavy swung down in a wide arc from the barn rafters, gathering speed as it descended, slicing just in front of the barn door opening. A tire rim.
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 155