by Dean, Jason
A courier delivery at a quarter past seven in the morning? That’d be a first. He heard the van’s engine rise in pitch as the driver stepped hard on the gas.
No time to check the floor panel now. He needed to get back to the house, right this second.
As he turned, the guy on the floor suddenly grabbed at his right ankle and tried to pull him off-balance. Bishop pulled his free leg back and kicked him in the temple. Hard. The man’s body immediately went limp. Bishop ran to the front of the bus and leaped out onto the sidewalk.
‘It’s a hit!’ he shouted, and began sprinting towards the house.
Out the corner of his eye, he saw the mailman to his right pull a large automatic assault rifle from one of his satchels. Bishop aimed the .38 in his general direction and fired off two shots as he ran, knowing both had gone well wide.
Behind him, he also heard a sharp slamming noise coming from inside the bus, quickly followed by windows being smashed. That goddamn floor panel. He’d been right. How many men had been hiding in there? Two? Three?
There was the screeching of tyres to his left as the courier van mounted the kerb, then quickly overtook him down the driveway. The rear doors were swinging open and he saw at least three heavily armed men sitting inside, steadying themselves against the van’s movements. The van was making for the wide passageway at the side of the house, towards Strickland’s location at the rear. Making sure all sides were covered.
Ahead of Bishop, only ten feet away, the front door was already half-open. Delaney stood there, Glock raised in her right hand.
Then she began firing over Bishop’s head as the sound of automatic gunfire suddenly erupted from behind him.
FIFTEEN
Bishop just kept running, trusting Delaney’s aim. She continued giving him cover, edging back from the doorway as she emptied a magazine at whatever was behind him. He waited for the inevitable bullets in the back, but none came. As he got closer, a neat row of jagged holes suddenly appeared in the doorframe just above his head. More rounds punched into the wall next to the door.
Then he was diving through the gap and inside.
He landed on the tiled floor, twisting round until he was facing the doorway. Aiming the .38 at two vague human shapes in the bus a hundred feet away, he squeezed the trigger four times until the gun clicked empty. With no idea if he hit anything, he turned his body, kicked out with his foot and slammed the door shut. For all the good it would do.
But he wasn’t injured. Yet. If he was going to help get the Stricklands out of this, staying in one piece was essential.
Delaney was crouched at the smashed window by the front door, still firing at the bus, and yelling, ‘Reiseker, stay on the one on the left. Hammond, call for backup and keep shooting, dammit.’ She ejected an empty magazine and rammed home a new one. ‘Lomax, stay with the principals. And where the hell are the others? TALK TO ME, DAMMIT.’
Still lying on the floor, Bishop flipped open the Taurus’s cylinder and ejected the six empty shells while he pulled one of the speed loaders from his jacket pocket. He could hear more semi-automatic gunfire coming from other parts of the house. From outside, fully automatic weapons hosed the property on all sides. The stench of gunpowder was everywhere, the noise relentless. It sounded like a wooden crate full of nuts and bolts being shaken side to side. The air was full of streaks of light as Delaney’s team returned fire. Shattered glass tinkled on the tiles in front of him.
Bishop inserted the six new rounds into the six slots, twisted the loader’s knurled knob and released them in a single motion.
He was snapping the cylinder closed when he saw Delaney go down.
She landed a few feet from him, her Glock skittering away along the floor. Blood was pumping from a neck wound and he could see she’d also been hit in the chest. He crawled over to her and she turned to him with glazed eyes. Her mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. He could see she’d taken a heavy hit to the jugular and was leaking blood at a rate of knots. She was dying, and she knew it.
‘Get …’ she managed to say. ‘Get …’ She coughed once and more blood erupted from her mouth. She tried again but no more words came.
‘I will,’ Bishop said. It was all he could think to say.
She stared at him blankly. She was going.
Bishop placed the palm of his free hand against her cheek and held it there for a moment, thinking of how soft her stomach had felt under his touch, two years ago. And he remembered that small compass tattoo just above her navel. So she’d always know where she was, she’d said. He remembered how the corners of her eyes crinkled when she’d laughed. And he thought of things left unsaid and how they’d now stay that way.
After a second or two Delaney closed her eyes.
We all die alone, she’d said. And she was absolutely right.
Knowing he couldn’t do anything for her, Bishop silently bid her goodbye and rolled onto his stomach and began crawling down the aisle towards the bedrooms. Staying as low as possible, since people generally aimed high, even in combat situations. The shelves on either side gave him some protection, but not much. They looked ready to collapse at any second. The noise was relentless. It was like being in a busy lumberyard. Wood splinters flew in the air around him like angry insects. Bullets punched through the outer walls and ricocheted off the interior walls and fixtures. More glass shattered. There was gun smoke everywhere. The whole place was being torn apart.
Bishop made it to the end of the shelves and looked to his left. The pool table had lost two of its legs at one end and was lying at a tilt. A marshal lay on his back next to the table, with one leg was folded under him and his entire upper body drenched in blood. Looked like Hammond. Bishop looked to his right and saw the Stricklands’ door was shut. With any luck they were both in there right now. And getting them out alive was all that mattered.
Slumped right next to their door was another marshal. Lomax. Hard to see where he’d been hit, but his whole right arm was covered in blood, although he was still gripping his Glock. In his left hand, he was holding a cell phone and trying to press numbers on the keypad. He looked barely conscious.
Using his elbows and knees, Bishop quickly crawled over to him. Bullets pinged all around him. The noise was just as deafening as before. He needed to get the Stricklands out, fast. Because the enemy would sure as hell be coming in. They’d want to make sure nobody was left breathing. And they’d do it soon, once they felt they’d lessened the odds enough. Bishop figured about thirty seconds had passed since he jumped out of the bus. No way of knowing how long he had left. But already an idea was forming in his mind.
He reached Lomax. ‘The principals,’ he yelled over the noise of gunfire. ‘They still inside?’
Lomax turned and blinked at him. Bishop saw part of his left ear was missing, and blood ran freely down his neck. Bishop couldn’t see where else he’d been hit, but he looked in bad shape. ‘You bastard,’ he said in a slurred voice. ‘You bast …’ He slowly started to lift the hand holding the gun.
Bishop took the Glock from his weak grip. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘Focus. The Stricklands. Are they inside? Who’s with them? Talk.’
Lomax ignored him and kept pressing buttons on his phone. ‘Gotta get through somehow. Gotta tell them …’
‘Shit.’ Bishop checked the Glock’s magazine. It was empty. He dropped it at Lomax’s feet and raised himself to a crouch. He tried the door handle, but it wouldn’t turn. Locked from the inside. He pounded on the door with his fists. ‘Strickland. It’s Bishop. Open this door.’
He kept pounding on it as he looked to his left. Stray rounds hit the frame by his head and he ducked as slivers of wood flew in front his face.
Somebody yanked the door open. Bishop immediately dived inside and slammed it shut behind him.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Strickland was on his hands and knees, staring wildly at Bishop. ‘What do we do?’
Bishop saw they were under siege in here, too. Barney was on
the floor by his overturned bed, frantically pulling on his jeans. The shooters in the backyard were really pouring it on. A continuous stream of bullets rat-a-tatted against the exterior of the house like a never-ending drum roll. Sounded like at least three automatic weapons. Probably more. In the enclosed space, the barrage was almost deafening. Stray rounds flew over their heads, but the four-foot-high shield was holding. For now.
‘What do we do now?’ Strickland yelled again.
‘I’m getting you both out of here,’ Bishop said.
‘And how the hell you gonna do that?’
Bishop saw the spare fibreglass corner plate lying on the floor next to the TV. Right now, it was the best plan he could come up with. He pocketed his .38 and scrabbled over on his hands and knees, grabbed the plate and dragged it back to Strickland.
‘I need you to take another corner piece from the wall and link it with his one,’ he said. ‘Quickly, while I’m doing the same.’
Without waiting for an answer, Bishop went over to the north-west corner of the room and wrenched at the two corner pieces until the fibreglass plates came apart at the dowel joints. He took one of these corner pieces and disconnected it from its brother on the other side. Then he separated two more plates. He dragged all three back to Strickland, who’d already gotten his second piece and connected the two plates together so they were now standing at right angles to each other. Bishop quickly fitted the other corner piece to one of them, so he was left with a three-sided U-shaped box. Strickland understood immediately. He connected a further plate to one side while Bishop did the same to the other, thus extending the length of the U.
Bishop saw Barney was now dressed in jeans, hooded sweatshirt and sneakers. He looked scared out of his mind, but he wasn’t crying.
‘Barney,’ Bishop shouted. ‘Over here.’
Barney quickly crawled over. His father placed his arm around him and held him close. Bishop estimated the assault had already lasted less than a minute. He didn’t know how many marshals were still alive. Maybe none. They were running out of time. The enemy would be coming in soon. If the three of them were going to move, it was now or never.
Bishop quickly explained what he wanted from them, adding, ‘I’ll lead with the open section in front of me. Strickland, you take the rear, with Barney between us. You and I will carry the box as we move. Keep it about two inches off the floor. Barney, you just keep low and stay with us all the way. Okay? Everything clear?’
They both nodded agreement. Keeping low, Bishop trotted over to the door, pulled it open and quickly ducked back out of the way. If anything, the concentration of firepower worsened. It was incessant, and coming from all directions. The air was full of lead and noise. He’d been in actual warzones that had used up less ammunition. And he hadn’t seen a single marshal anywhere. At least, not standing. He glanced over to the right, but all he could see of Lomax was his feet. If the guy wasn’t already dead, he would be soon.
He re-joined Strickland and Barney. They’d already taken their positions within the U and were waiting for him. Bishop backed into it, crouched down and lifted the front two plates off the ground. He felt Strickland doing the same at the back.
‘Okay, we’re moving out now,’ he said. ‘Keep your heads down. Ready? Go.’
Bishop took one step forward. Then another. And another. Keeping his steps regular. Strickland managed to stay with him, step for step. Barney had a hold of his waist and was sticking close. Bishop aimed for the centre of the doorway and carefully guided them through. This was the worst part, when he was wide open to the gunfire coming from the front of the house. Bullets flew all around them. He held his breath. When he judged he’d cleared the doorway, he carefully turned right ninety degrees and breathed out again.
He carried on walking at the same stoop. They’d covered another ten feet when about a dozen rounds suddenly riddled the left side of the shield. The plates held, but Bishop was immediately pulled hard to the right until the wall stopped him. He fought to keep his legs under him. Strickland shouted something and dropped the back end. Barney cried out, too. They all came to a stop.
‘Anybody hit?’ Bishop shouted.
‘No,’ Barney said into his back.
‘I’m okay,’ Strickland said.
‘We keep going, then,’ Bishop said, picking up his part of the barrier again while Strickland did the same at the back. ‘Don’t stop. We’re almost there.’
Bishop figured another twenty-five feet to the utility room. That was all that mattered. Getting to that room. They covered a few more feet. The shooting didn’t let up for a second. How much longer could it last? And how much time had passed since it had started? Eighty seconds? Ninety? Bishop had lost track. The cops had to be already on their way. But by the time they arrived it would be too late.
More rounds hit the side of the shield. Nobody cried out. Nobody lost his balance. Bishop kept going. He saw the open doorway of the utility room was only ten feet away. Eight. Six. Four. His stepped up the pace a little and then they were right next to the doorway.
‘Turning left now,’ he yelled, then carefully turned them ninety degrees until he was facing the room. He moved forward, manoeuvring them between the bullet-ridden washing machines and the destroyed cleaning equipment stacked next to the walls. Thin snakes of electric wiring hissed and sparked. He made it to the end and used one hand to turn the door handle. He kicked the door open and continued on into the garage.
Hundreds of bullet holes already riddled the three garage doors directly ahead. Daylight poured through each hole, turning the garage into a nightclub from hell. Bishop could see the Ford was totally destroyed. All four tyres were flat. There was nothing left of the windows except jagged shards of glass. He aimed for the empty middle bay, turning them all ninety degrees so the open end faced the rear doors of the SUV. The Toyota was still intact, as it should be. The body was also covered with bullet holes, but none seemed to have penetrated more than a few millimetres. He was glad to see plenty of spent rounds on the floor next to the vehicle. There were also impact marks along the side windows, but the polycarbonate glass had held, too. So far.
‘We’re at the SUV,’ he said and lowered his part of the box until it touched the floor. A few stray rounds thumped against the box. ‘Stay where you are and keep your heads down until I tell you. When I say move, you both jump in the back, got it?’
Bishop dashed forward, grabbed the driver’s door handle and yanked it open for cover. He realized the sound of firing was gradually lessening in intensity, which meant the marshals were all down by now. Or dead. The hit team would be preparing to storm the house and make sure Strickland was part of the body count. They were out of time.
He edged along the vehicle’s side and opened the rear door. Holding it ajar, he said, ‘Both of you get in now. Move.’
Barney jumped out of the box like a starter’s gun had gone off. He quickly dived into the back seat and stayed down like he’d been told. Strickland followed him a second later. Bishop slammed the door shut after them and jumped into the driver’s seat. As he pulled his door shut he lowered his hand to the right of the wheel, expecting to feel the key sticking out of the ignition.
But the key wasn’t there.
The slot was empty.
SIXTEEN
Bishop felt around behind the steering wheel. Nothing. The key had to be here somewhere. Had to be. Because the alternative was to run back inside and search Delaney’s pockets for the spare, then somehow get back here in one piece with only a .38 and twelve rounds against an unknown number of automatic weapons. The very definition of suicide.
‘What’s the hold-up?’ Strickland said.
‘Key’s missing,’ Bishop said, leaning forward in his seat and quickly moving his hands over the carpet at his feet. There was nothing there. He worked his fingers under the seat bar and moved his fingers along.
‘Oh, man, I don’t believe this,’ Strickland said.
Bishop ignored him and ke
pt looking. There was nothing under the driver’s seat. He leaned over to the passenger seat and felt along the floor on that side. The floor mat had shifted position so part of it was in contact with the centre console, and now he noticed something lodged in the space in between. Something that glinted. He pulled the mat away and saw a thick black transponder key on the floor.
‘Got it,’ he said, sitting back up. ‘Put your seatbelts on.’
As they both strapped themselves in, Bishop pulled his own seatbelt across and inserted the key in the ignition. He turned it clockwise. The engine caught instantly. The police scanner also lit up. He could see the numbers 159.21000 displayed on the screen. Based on what Delaney had told him, this was likely the North-east Dispatch frequency.
Bishop pressed down hard on the accelerator and the engine steadily rose in pitch. Once the needle was firmly in the red, he pressed his other foot on the brake pedal, released the handbrake and shifted the gearstick into Drive. ‘Whatever happens next,’ he said over the engine noise, ‘make sure you both stay down.’
He waited for a few more seconds, still revving. Watching the garage door directly in front of them. Waiting for one of the shooters to get curious about the noise. He estimated a fifteen-foot gap between the front bumper and the garage door. Hopefully enough space to get some decent speed up before he made contact.
When he saw a shadow fall across some of the holes in the garage door, Bishop gripped the wheel and took his left foot off the brake.
The tyres screeched against the floor as the SUV shot forward like a rocket, covering the space in half a second. The vehicle slammed into the garage door and immediately burst through it in an explosion of timber and noise. Bishop was jolted forward by the impact, but kept his foot firmly on the pedal. He felt the vehicle wobble as the wheels went over an obstruction. With luck, one of the shooters.
Bishop kept the vehicle pointing towards the gap in the boundary wall directly ahead, forty feet away. The bus was on the street just to the left of it. In a flash, he identified three men in the immediate vicinity. All with automatic weapons. Two on his left were turning as they approached the front door of the house. The third, the mailman, was right in front of them. He was standing inside the wall, just to the left of the gap.