The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  Reggie’s hit bad.

  Blood everywhere. Pale, clammy face. Frightened eyes.

  She’s going into shock.

  I apply pressure to the wound, to the front and back, her blood oozing out through my fingers.

  “They raped me,” she says.

  Her voice is soft and dry.

  “What? Who?”

  “The night of our prom. Robin and his boys.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, “but don’t worry about that right now.”

  “I moved back to make them pay. Knew they were dirty. Knew I could get them. Legally. My mom found out what they did and . . . she was dying or . . . thought she was. She . . . took them out one by one for what they did to me and . . . to my niece. Feeble old lady . . . they never saw her coming. Please . . . don’t hurt her. Please let her . . . She doesn’t have long.”

  Her eyes close.

  “Reggie? Reggie?”

  Without opening her eyes she says, “Save Heather. Don’t let her die out here like Remington did.”

  “We’ll save her,” I say. “Together. I need your help. We’ll—”

  Just then a round sears white hot through my right quadriceps.

  61

  Then

  * * *

  Blood loss.

  Lightheaded.

  Stiffness.

  His leg hurts so bad he figures there must be nerve damage.

  Cold sweat.

  Clammy skin.

  —You don’t look so good, Gauge says.

  —Keep moving.

  Thirst.

  Hunger.

  —Donnie Paul’s a hell of a tracker. Not that he’d have to be to follow the blood drops trailing after you. They’ll be coming. Catch up to us quick, as slow as we’re moving.

  —Whatever happens, you get shot first.

  —You’re a stubborn sumbitch, I’ll give you that, but goddamn.

  —You sure talk a lot.

  —Rather walk in silence? Fine by me. Just trying to pass the time until you die.

  —Or you.

  —More likely you.

  —No doubt, but right now you’re the one on the wrong side of this little revolver.

  —I told you, having the drop on me doesn’t get you anywhere. They can’t let you live any more than I can. You’re outnumbered, outgunned, almost out of time.

  —And yet I’m still here.

  —Oh, you’ve done good. I’ll give you that, but making it through the night and making it out of the swamp are two very different goddamn things.

  —Well, if what you say is true, Remington says, grant a dying man his wish and shut the fuck up.

  —You got it, killer.

  62

  Now

  * * *

  Both hit.

  No way to tell how bad.

  But both are down.

  Keep firing. Keep them pinned down.

  Keep checking woods.

  When the other target comes out of the woods, she’ll be confused, will try to help. One shot to the head.

  But got to finish these other two off first. Now.

  He looks for any part of the two on the ground, scanning the area around them with his scope.

  Continuing to fire rounds, trying to get them to move.

  He’s never been more ready to be finished with a job and far away from a place.

  He really wants to be home when his daughter wakes up in the morning. Besides, how long is it before he’s bitten by a snake or spider or a mosquito carrying the fuckin’ Zika virus?

  Shoot the shit out of them and get the fuck out of here.

  63

  Now

  * * *

  I fall down onto Reggie. She doesn’t even open her eyes.

  The pain is immediate and excruciating and I can only imagine what Reggie is feeling, hoping that she’s feeling anything at all.

  With rounds still flying around us, I pull off Reggie’s coat and belt. Wrap the coat around her wound and fasten the belt around it, as tight as it will go.

  As soon as I finish with her, I pull my own belt off and tighten it around the wound in my leg.

  Got to get Heather. Got to get us out of here.

  Awkwardly, I pull myself up by the tire, careful to stay bent over so the SUV is between me and the shooter.

  With no weight on my right leg, I lean over, grab the door handle and pull the door open, nearly falling down several times during the simple process.

  Gotta be quick. Can’t be exposed for even a second longer than you have to or he’ll put one in your head.

  Create a diversion.

  Reaching down, I pull off one of Reggie’s boots.

  Then gathering her up to me as best I can, I toss the boot out toward the front of the vehicle and drag and pull her with me around the door and inside her SUV, staying below the driver’s side window as I do.

  With her crumpled in the passenger’s side—partially on the seat, partially on the floorboard—I pull the door closed and crawl into the driver’s side.

  Reaching back over and digging the keys out of her pocket, I return to crouching down in the driver’s seat, insert the key, start the engine, pull down the gear shifter, and stomp on the gas.

  Without looking where I’m going, I head straight. Or as straight as I can without being able to see and on four flat tires that resist rolling, let alone turning.

  I drive toward the spot in the trees where Heather entered the woods, hoping to block her from the sniper shots when she returns.

  64

  Then

  * * *

  Mouth dry.

  Leg feverish and swollen.

  Seeping.

  Steady drip.

  He’s got to get to the river and out of the swamp soon. Think of Heather and keep walking.

  If you get out of here, you’ll owe her your life.

  I plan on giving it to her—if she’ll have it.

  You know she will. She was never ambiguous about what she wanted.

  Stumbling.

  Shuffling.

  Dragging his right leg.

  Think of her.

  —Huh?

  —Where’d you go, killer?

  —What’d you say?

  —I said, why are you doing all this?

  —A woman. Why else?

  —Your mom?

  —Okay. Two women. Let’s stop here and rest a minute.

  —Gauge, if you can hear us, we wanted to let you know we’re coming to get you. Me and Arlington are behind you, and Tanner’s on the other side.

  It’s the first time the radio has sounded in a while.

  The two men sit five feet apart, Remington leaning against the base of a birch, elbow resting on the ground, gun held up, pointed directly at his prisoner.

  —Who was the girl? Remington asks. Why’d you kill her?

  —You’ll die without ever knowin’.

  —Or maybe I’ll kill you and find out from the investigators.

  —She’s gone. Doesn’t matter to her anymore. Why should it to you?

  —When I first entered the woods last night I saw a gaunt old man. I think he was a poacher. Shot a black bear. Did you kill him?

  He smiles.

  —Not for shooting no damn bear, he says.

  Rustling.

  Padding.

  Light footfalls on leaves.

  Remington lifts his arm and extends the gun toward Gauge.

  —Slide over here.

  Gauge doesn’t move.

  Remington thumbs back the hammer.

  —I’m coming. I’m coming.

  —Hands behind your back. Back toward me.

  When Gauge is close enough, Remington wraps his left arm around his throat, places the gun to his temple, and waits.

  A moment passes.

  Then another.

  And then a young hunting dog with a tracking collar walks out of the underbrush. Moving too slowly to be after them, he’s most likely lost.

  Tilt
ing his head, his eyes questioning, the dog seems to look at the two men for guidance.

  —He doesn’t belong to us, Gauge says.

  About two feet tall, the Redbone coonhound’s solid short hair is the color of rust in water. Floppy ears. Long tail. Black nose at the end of a long muzzle. Amber-colored eyes.

  Remington releases Gauge and pushes him. He slides back to his previous position a few feet away.

  Remington whistles.

  —You lost, boy? Come here.

  He does, wagging his tail, whimpering.

  —That’s a good boy, Remington says, as he pats and rubs him. You got a name?

  Searching the collar beneath the tracking device, Remington smiles and shakes his head when he reads it.

  —What’s his name? Gauge asks.

  —Killer.

  He laughs a lot at that, his face showing genuine amusement.

  —Now that you’ve got some company, can I go?

  Remington shakes his head.

  —Let’s go. Time to move.

  Using the tree for support, Remington manages to get upright again.

  —Need a hand? Gauge asks, smiling.

  —Walk.

  He does, and Remington falls in a few feet behind him, whistling for the hound to join them, which he does for a short while before veering off into the woods and disappearing.

  Leg worse.

  Much worse.

  Swollen.

  Stiff.

  Nearly unusable.

  His dragging boot leaves a smooth flat track smeared with blood in the soft dirt.

  —We’re almost to the other side, Gauge says. You gonna make it? I’d hate for you to miss the surprise.

  —I’m gonna make it—all the way out of here.

  —Man needs a dream.

  Remington steps closer, holds the .38 down low, aims, and shoots Gauge in the right calf.

  His leg buckles and he falls down, rolling, grabbing his leg.

  —Fuck.

  Breathing fast and heavy. Pain contorting his face.

  —What the fuck? What was . . . ? That was . . . unexpected.

  Once the initial pain has passed and his breathing’s under control, Gauge begins to laugh.

  —Goddamn. I’ve got to meet this girl of yours.

  —You never will. Now get up and let’s go.

  65

  Now

  * * *

  He’s almost out of rounds for the rifle.

  Never intended to shoot everything to shit like this. Never done this before. Usually it’s one round to the head or chest, but this . . . this . . . He’s a fuckin’ one man war zone.

  Why? Why so unprofessional? Why so imprecise? Why so fuckin’ impatient?

  He knows why.

  His daughter.

  Never planned to have a kid. She was a complete accident. When he couldn’t get her mother to abort her, he seriously considered popping the bitch, but . . . she was too closely connected to him. He’s a consummate professional—or used to be. He couldn’t take out someone he’d had that much intimate contact with.

  And later he was glad he didn’t. He was glad she had kept the kid.

  He likes having a kid. Likes it a lot. Doesn’t exactly love her. At least he doesn’t think he does. He’s not sure what that even is or if there is such a thing, but . . .

  She’s who has changed everything for him, has him acting like it’s fuckin’ amateur hour out here.

  He wants to be done with this shit so he can get back to Miami to see her.

  Well, so what if he does? There are worse reasons.

  So get on with it. Bet there’s a police radio in that SUV. Bet the fucker is callin’ in backup right now.

  Of course, maybe it doesn’t have signal out in this godforsaken hell hole.

  You better find out. Better see how much time you have left and what you have to do to get out of here safely. Your ass may have to go through the fuckin’ swamp, steal a boat, go down river, find a car. Goddamn but you’ve screwed the pooch on this one. Well, can’t be undone now, so just get the fuck to fixin’ it.

  What’re you waiting for?

  Out of ammo for the rifle. Gonna have to do this one up close and personal.

  More trouble. More effort. More aggravation.

  But one big consolation.

  He can make them look at him when he does it and watch the light go out of their shocked and frightened little eyes.

  66

  Now

  * * *

  Heather is emerging from the woods. I can hear her.

  I stop the vehicle and quickly rise up enough to see out of the front window.

  “John? John? What’s going on?”

  “Get behind the base of a big tree,” I yell. “Hurry. Now. We’re being shot at. Reggie and I are both hit.”

  “Oh my God. Are y’all okay?”

  “We’ve got to get Reggie to a hospital,” I say.

  I pick up the mic of Reggie’s mobile radio and let dispatch know what’s going on, requesting backup, SWAT, emergency services, and anyone else they can find, warning them we have an active shooter situation.

  A year ago when I first started with the department I wouldn’t have been able to radio in, but we recently switched over to a new service that works nearly everywhere in the county—even out here.

  “What do you want me to do?” Heather asks.

  I check the side mirror. It has been shot out and isn’t usable.

  I realize the shots aren’t hitting around us anymore and I wonder if the shooter is out or merely relocating for a better vantage point.

  “Can you get down low, move from tree to tree directly behind the SUV and make your way over here? It’s very important that you don’t leave yourself exposed. He’s a great shot and has a high-powered rifle.”

  “I can make it,” she says.

  “Be careful. Stay low. Move quickly between the trees.”

  I turn in the seat and quickly rise up and look back down the dirt road. I do this several times. Up. Look. Down. Up. Look. Down. Think about what I’ve seen.

  My department-issued car is shot to shreds. Heather’s car is too. But no sign of the shooter. No sign of anything else.

  I glance at Reggie in the seat next to me. She’s lost a lot of blood and her breathing is raspy and ragged, but she is breathing.

  Got to get her to a hospital.

  Heather. Got to save Heather for Remington. Got to get her out of here. Can’t let her die out here like this.

  “Know what,” I say to Heather. “On second thought, just stay behind the biggest tree you can find and don’t move. Help is on the way.”

  “But if I come to you we can get Reggie to help sooner,” she says.

  “Yeah, that’s what I had been thinking, but . . .”

  “I can make it,” she says. “I—”

  I hear the unmistakable wet thump sound of her getting hit with a round and then the hard dry thwack of the same round hitting a tree behind her.

  “Heather,” I yell. “Heather. Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

  “I’m . . . I’ve been hit. I’m . . .”

  “Where?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Heather?”

  Still no response.

  I jam the shifter in Park.

  “Stay alive, Reggie,” I say. “Help is on the way. I’m going to get Heather and then we’re going to ride out of here. Just fight. Fight for Rain. For your mom. For Merrick. Stay alive for them.”

  Taking the small .38 out of my ankle holster and tucking it into the waistband of my jeans, I take a deep breath, let it out, and say a quick prayer.

  As quickly as I can, I sling the door open, hop out of it, and run as fast as I can, dragging my right leg as I do.

  67

  Then

  * * *

  —Let me bandage my leg, Gauge says.

  —Now, Remington says.

  —Okay. Okay. Don’t shoot.

  He sm
iles. Holds his hands up.

  It’s as if Gauge is actually enjoying himself. He’s having fun, Remington thinks. He’s not afraid of dying. He doesn’t feel anything, doesn’t have normal reactions.

  Stumbling onto his one good leg, he begins to hop unsteadily toward the river.

  Moving more slowly now, the two men look like lost and wounded soldiers attempting to return to their platoon.

  —They’ll catch up to us fast now.

  —If they’re still out here. They may’ve gone home.

  —They’re here.

  World spinning around him.

  Dizzy.

  Unsteady.

  Weak.

  Gauge could easily overpower him if he tried. He doubted he could even get a shot off or hit him if he did. He’s been through too much, too tired, too banged up from the wreck, lost too much blood from the bullet hole in his leg.

  But Gauge has his own problems.

  Limping.

  Hobbling.

  Trailing blood.

  —Still can’t believe you shot me.

  —Probably won’t be the only time today.

  Gauge laughs.

  —I’m beginning to think none of us’re gonna make it out of here. This whole thing’s just fucked.

  —Even if you walk out of here—

  A round hits the tree next to his head, splintering a piece of the bark off and hurtling it toward his face.

  Ducking as best he can, he lunges for Gauge, grabbing him around the throat, jamming the gun into his ear, and spinning him around toward the gunfire.

  Covered from the back by a thick oak and in the front by Gauge, Remington is protected for the moment.

  —Tell them to stop shooting—unless they’re trying to hit you.

  —Hold your fire, Gauge yells.

  Another round rings out, sails by.

  —Stop shooting, goddamn it.

  The shooting stops.