by Rose Beecham
Somehow Jude couldn’t see the patriarchs of Rapture dispatching a young woman to negotiate on their behalf, but she was willing to keep an open mind. The shooting had slowed down to the occasional stray bullet; maybe they were out of ammo and wanted to discuss surrender terms. She took a mental snapshot of the rider: burnished copper hair, a small oval face and a confident white smile. Even her unflattering dress could not fully disguise a slender, athletic body. How depressing, Jude thought, she was probably married to her own grandfather.
Surprisingly, the woman made direct eye contact with Farrell. “Are you in charge here?” she demanded.
He nodded curtly. “SAC Trent Farrell of the FBI, Phoenix. How may I be of help, ma’am?”
Piercing dark eyes swept their small group. “I’m Chastity Young. I’m here about my niece, Adeline Fleming. Are you conducting the search?”
The SAC cast a silent query in Jude’s direction, and she reminded him, “The two children thought to have escaped on Sunday.”
“I’ve come to take her home,” Chastity Young asserted.
Startling the troops even more, she began to undress, stripping down to a white T-shirt and khaki hiking shorts. She kicked her discarded dress, petticoats, socks and sandals into a small pile, and said, “Could you add these to your trash, please.”
Gossett glanced sideways at Jude and raised his eyebrows.
“What can you tell us about the circumstances of your niece’s disappearance?” Jude asked when it seemed Farrell was lost for words.
“Only that she was living with me in Salt Lake City until a week ago.” Chastity took a pair of hiking boots from her backpack. “Then her parents came and took her. They said she was going to be married. She’s fourteen.”
Jude said, “We met her older sister yesterday. Summer.”
“You met her here?” Chastity sat down and set about methodically getting into her boots.
“She’s one of Mr. Epperson’s wives.”
Chastity shook her head, clearly shocked. “I had no idea.”
“She thinks your niece may be hiding in those hills.” Jude indicated the towering red and black rock formations about ten miles northeast of the ranch.
“Ah. The Seeds of Cain.”
Puzzled, Jude said, “I’m sorry?”
“That’s what they call those hills ’round here.” Chastity was on her feet again. “I don’t think you’ll find that on any of the maps…in the interests of good taste.”
Jude finally got it. The Mormon church had been a whites-only club for most of its history, asserting that African Americans were cursed with dark skin so that they could be identified as a caste apart. Referred to as the seed of Cain, they were excluded until the late seventies when Africa became a target for missionaries. At that stage, the president of the church recanted the racist doctrine, claiming to have received new instructions from God.
Since then, the mainstream church had worked hard to dissociate itself from its past. However, the breakaway fundamentalist sects rejected this abandonment of the original doctrine and still saw African Americans as “inferior.” This pronouncement coming from a bunch of people who married their own siblings and had most of their wives and children living on welfare.
“Ma’am, you can’t remain here,” Farrell told Chastity.
“I’m not planning to. And by the way, those plygs back in Colorado City are forming some kind of army and they’re on their way out here to have a showdown with you people. Just thought you should know.”
Farrell’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be torn between patronizing disbelief and stunned speculation when he asked, “How many men would you say are forming this vigilante squad? And what kind of weaponry did you see?”
Chastity shrugged. “I don’t know anything about guns, but ’round here, if it shoots they want to own it.” She fell silent and gazed slowly around. Comprehension filtered into her eyes. “You’re not here to search for my niece, are you?”
“No, ma’am,” Farrell said.
“Then what’s going on?”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss the operation.”
“Well, it looks like you have your hands full.” Chastity headed back to her bike. “I need to get moving while the sun is still low.”
“You cannot remain in the area,” Farrell said. “Sergeant Gossett will escort you to Rapture.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Chastity fired up her bike and rocked it off the stand. “I’ll be sure to stay out of range. If you see a flare, don’t worry. It means I’ve found them. Two flares, and I need help at the location. Okay?”
“Ms. Young. I really must insist—”
“No. I must insist.” Chastity was completely unmoved by the voice of authority. “I am here to find my niece. Period. Stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.” She put her bike into gear and negotiated a path around the cars.
“Wait.” Jude ran after her. She scribbled her cell phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to the feisty woman. “If you need to communicate, call me.”
She wasn’t sure how she was going to help, given she was planning to make her getaway now that the guns had fallen silent. But she’d promised Tulley she would follow through on the missing kids and she wanted to interview them once they were found.
“Thanks.” Chastity smiled broadly and glanced down at the number. “You didn’t give me your name.”
“Jude Devine. I’m a detective with the Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Colorado?” Chastity’s dark eyes swept her up and down with interest.
“Yes.”
“I love hiking in that area. Your wildflowers are just spectacular.”
“Well, if you’re ever in Paradox, stop in at the sheriff’s office there. That’s where I’m based.”
“Be warned, I’m the kind who takes people up on offers like that.”
Jude grinned. “And I’m the kind who never expects that to happen.” Now that they had established a rapport, she said, “Oh, and by the way, would you mind leaving your contact details with the sheriff’s office in Rapture? I may need to talk to Adeline. I’m investigating the murder of a young woman.”
“By these people?” Chastity gestured in the general direction of the Epperson home.
“Yes.”
“About time. I’d be happy to help.”
“Good luck with your niece,” Jude said.
Chastity thanked her and turned the bike toward the desert. “Good luck with the crazy people,” she called and with a brief wave, she kicked off down the slope handling the off-road like a professional.
Jude managed about ten paces toward the forward staging area when Farrell flagged her down. “Hold up, Devine. We need all available personnel. Looks like they’re releasing a bunch of civilians at the rear of the dwelling.”
“Want me at ten o’clock?”
“Yes. I’ve issued instructions to give the civilians any cover necessary and facilitate extraction.”
As they walked briskly, she asked, “Do we have telephone contact with anyone inside yet?” There was no land line in the house, and Epperson had not been answering his cell phone.
“He’s still not picking up.”
They parted company at the barn and Jude ran along a barricade of hay bales, shields, and SUVs, then down the slope to the exterior perimeter, heading for the rear of their northeast position. As she moved toward a group of agents staked out behind a rock formation, she could see several small children standing at the corner of a half-built extension to the rear of the house.
Ten agents were grouped around the rock and a support team was situated on the exterior periphery well below the position, surrounded by banks of ammunition, tear gas canisters, def-tec grenades, and additional weaponry.
Jude joined the agent at the point farthest north and said, “Detective Jude Devine, Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Special Agent Patrick Kelly.” He eyed her MP5 dubiously. “Ever
handled one of those before, Devine?”
“I’m FBI sniper and tactical weapons trained,” Jude replied without expanding.
“In that case.” Kelly indicated a foothold a couple of feet up the rock formation. “Wanna take up position there? I have a more suitable weapon for you.”
He spoke into his headset and a support staffer showed up with a hefty M40A1. Jude had encountered the sniper rifle at Quantico; it was a lot like a Remington 700. She could make a clean shot dead on target at a thousand yards. Their rock barrier was a little over a hundred from the house, the closest point on the interior perimeter. The weapon was overkill for a scenario like this one.
“Child’s play,” she mumbled.
“Poor visibility and brief windows of opportunity.” Kelly flagged the significant issues just in case she hadn’t noticed.
Jude surveyed the SWAT team members around her. Each held an MP5 in gloved hands, the stocks tucked against their shoulders, their right thumbs resting on the safety selector switches above the pistol grips, index fingers just outside their trigger guards. Every weapon was mounted with retina-searing gun lights and loaded and bracketed with thirty-round magazines. In their left ears, tiny radio speaker buds conveyed their orders. The pockets of their tactical vests were weighed down with spare magazines, each filled with 10 millimeter bullets designed to stop any opposition within seconds.
They were ready to storm, if the order was given. Each had practiced the maneuvers a hundred times at Quantico, yet no situation was ever the same as another and there were real people inside the house, and the pale faces peering from behind the stucco wall belonged to real children.
Jude could measure the adrenaline hitting her system by the sudden increase in lung capacity, the urge to run, the sharpening of perception. She could feel her heart pumping blood harder, her muscles tensing, time slowing down. The children started running, heading for a white minivan parked about thirty yards from the house. It was a mistake.
“Oh fuck,” Jude muttered. “They should have gone straight out the back.”
Through the telescopic sight, she watched barrels shift along the north-facing flank of the house. The people inside were aiming at the fleeing figures. In disbelief, Jude heard the pop of gunfire. A child fell. Another crouched over him, her hands covering her head.
In her ear, Farrell’s voice ordered, “Cover them!” and the agents opened fire.
Jude dropped to the ground, swapped the M40A1 for the MP5 Kelly had left propped against the base of the rock. Grabbing a shield from the spares stacked next to it, she yelled, “Kelly, let’s roll!” and darted along the base of the rise until she could see the white minivan looming. Bullets whizzed over her head.
“Extract!” Farrell ordered. “Get in there and carry them out if you have to.”
She and Kelly shimmied up the rise until they could see over. There were two women and about eight kids pinned down at the edge of the house. Jude was stunned at the sight of Summer, wearing a bloodied nightdress and looking like she was in a state of near collapse.
“That woman’s giving birth,” she told Kelly.
The plygs were returning fire, hitting the rock position with everything they had.
“You take the two kids,” Kelly said. “I’ll get to the group.”
Jude looked back over her shoulder. Agents were streaming along the exterior perimeter toward their position. “Go!” she cried and she and Kelly bolted over the rise, to the rear of the minivan.
They had only seconds before the plygs caught on. She could hear Kelly yelling at the women and children to get down as she ducked in front of the two children huddled on the earth. Bullets struck her shield and she fired back. A steel hailstorm infused the air with the smell of gunpowder. She knew from the deafening rat-tat that reinforcements had arrived and they were doing their best to draw the plygs’ fire. Jude snatched the wounded boy into her arms. He was maybe three years old. The little girl with him looked six or so and gazed at Jude like she was an apparition.
“Stay with me,” she said, tucking the girl’s hand in hers, horribly aware that she had no way of firing with any accuracy while trying to hang on to a gun, a shield, and two small children.
She sent a message to Ben—if you’re already an angel, please help me. Then she sprang up and ran. She felt weirdly light and fast, the world passing her by in a rush of blue sky and red earth. The ridge loomed faster than she’d expected, and she threw herself and the little girl over, rolling and hugging the bleeding boy to her. They landed in a heap at the feet of several fully armored men who instantly seized the children and ran them down the line.
Panting, Jude checked herself out for wounds, almost unable to believe she hadn’t sustained any. She realized she was being clapped on the shoulders and an agent was handing her a water flask. She took a single, rapid slug and checked in with Farrell.
“Are we going in, sir?”
“No. I want minimum casualties.”
This had to be a tough call. They had enough firepower to storm the building. Sledgehammer the windows, drop in a few flash-bang grenades with delayed fuses, breach the front door with charges—a battering ram wouldn’t cut it. They could be inside within ten seconds, but the body count would be high.
She watched Kelly lower Summer to the ground and thought, poor bastard. FBI SWAT training did not include delivering babies in the middle of a siege. Over the radio, Farrell ordered a couple of vehicles in as a diversion, a high risk strategy. These people had a rocket propelled grenade launcher and they knew how to use it. They’d already taken out a car.
“Kelly, when you see them coming, you are go.”
“Roger that.”
“B team. I want four men in there to replace him.”
“Roger that,” a woman replied, apparently next in the chain of command.
Jude glanced around, trying to spot her. She didn’t have to try too hard. A gloved index finger pointed her way. She was being ordered into position as one of the four going in.
They flattened out along the rise and waited for the command. Farrell was pulling out the stops. He had a chopper overhead, drawing fire away from the two approaching vehicles, black SUVs with the windows tinted. Gunfire flashed from the house. They were aiming at the chopper. Jude wondered if they knew there were more civilians out back. It didn’t look like it.
“Go!” Farrell commanded.
Jude stopped thinking and started running just as the two SUVs screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust, providing a workable screen between the white minivan and the house. As the plygs unloaded into the vehicles, their occupants bailed fast and ran to the back of the house spraying fire along the white stucco.
“We have about twenty seconds to get out of here,” Jude said. By now, the plygs had to be on their way to the rear of the dwelling. She tapped two of the guys and pointed into the empty room behind them. “Stay here and pin them down if they come through that door.”
The rest of the team picked up a child each, leaving the biggest to run alongside. A young teenage girl had a Downs Syndrome child in her arms. He was the only one not weeping.
The woman with the group clutched the infant she was carrying to one shoulder and seized Jude’s arm. “Her baby’s coming out the wrong way.”
“Don’t worry. We have doctors standing by,” Jude told her. Addressing Kelly, she asked, “Can you carry her?”
“Sure.” He lifted Summer into his arms and called, “Go!”
The first SUV was ten feet away and they made it without incident. The firing had stopped. Even these people were not going to kill innocent women and children. An electronic buzz hurt Jude’s eardrums and Nathaniel Epperson’s voice boomed out.
“And the Lord sayeth, I shall bring a scourge upon my people to purge the ungodly from among you. And those that are righteous shall suffer with the wicked.”
Jude signaled the agents at the front of their group, waving them on. One at a time, they ran to the next SUV. Smoke wa
s rising from the vehicle, creating useful cover. But Jude was uneasy. The thing could go up in flames at any moment. She met Kelly’s eyes and knew he was thinking exactly the same thing.
The litany continued. “And those transgressors who seek forgiveness shall beg their brethren to spill their blood in atonement for their sins, as ye would so do now if only the wrath that is kindled against ye were known.”
As Epperson poured down hate, they shuffled out from behind the first vehicle, crossing five or six yards to the next. The two agents at the head of their little band were already at the white minivan, about to run the final stretch to safety, when a light flashed from the house.
Jude shouted, “Grenade! Run! Take cover.”
She and Kelly didn’t get far enough from the SUV targeted by the plygs. The blast threw them off their feet, well clear of the vehicles. Ears ringing, she lifted her head. Kelly and Summer lay inert a few feet away. Next to them, the teenage girl with the Downs Syndrome child was trying to crawl, blood streaming down her face from a head wound. They were completely exposed, too far away from the vehicles to use them as cover. The plygs opened fire at random through the haze of smoke, smashing the boards off the nearest window so they could find better sightlines.
“Engage,” Farrell commanded. “Shoot to kill.” A swarm of FBI agents cleared the ridge, grouping at the white minivan in an offensive formation.
Jude could hear gunfire but it was as if her ears were under water. She scrambled toward the girl with the head injury and realized that Kelly was hit and unconscious. Yelling for support to bring Summer and the small boy in, she grabbed the girl around the middle, hooked Kelly beneath one arm, and dragged them both toward the minivan. She had barely made six paces when several agents reached them and three more ran by, exchanging heavy fire with the men shooting from the windows.
Handing Kelly and the girl over, Jude turned automatically to go back. But even as she willed her feet to move, her body froze. It was too late. Out in the open, unprotected, the little boy hunkered next to Summer, his hands over his face. The image froze in Jude’s mind as bullets rained down on the helpless pair before they could be rescued. Their bodies bounced, blood sprayed, and dust rose in a dense cloud.