“Check it out,” a rough voice commanded. One of the flashlights peeled away from the others and bobbed its way toward Reese.
Reese swallowed again. Don’t come over here—that wasn’t me!
Panic rising, Reese looked around for a way to hide, a distraction, something—he spotted a small package on the floor—a toddler’s sippy-cup—and put the knife down to grab the little plastic container with a built-in straw. He threw the cup as far as he could with his off hand, perpendicular to the nearest flashlight. It crashed against something in the darkness, creating an awful racket in the silent store. The light paused, then swung away.
“What was that?” someone hissed.
“Over there,” someone close whispered.
“Then check it out,” the first voice commanded, irritated.
“Stark,” a third voice whispered from Reese’s left.
Reese turned to peer into the darkness on his other side, trapped like a rabbit. How many people are in here? Dadgum it, Jo, where are you?
“That wasn’t us! There’s someone else in here, Gage, I swear.”
“Find ‘em, then!” the first voice—the leader—demanded. “Spread out. You two, grab what you can, and remember Curry’s stupid list. The cops probably know we’re here by now, so move it.”
A light worked around the end of the aisle where Reese was hiding and a second flashed over, illuminating a large man near Reese. He recognized the shape silhouetted in the man’s hand: a handgun.
“What the—” the intruder said, bringing his light to bear on Reese and blinding him.
Reese leapt at the man, knife flashing. He had no other option. There was nowhere to run but into the arms of the others—who knew how many—prowling the store. He closed his eyes against the light and prepared himself for the hammer blow that would indicate he’d been shot, but when the gun went off with a thunderous crash, he felt nothing.
Reese took his opportunity to close with the enemy and dove forward, slashing up. The knife met flesh and by the jarring resistance that reverberated up Reese’s forearm, he’d hit bone as well. The howl of pain from the gunman confirmed it.
Reese didn’t have time to think of a second move before his body—and his injured shoulder—slammed into the attacker, bowling them both over. He fell on the floor, breathless from the searing pain in his shoulder, mouth open, unable to breathe. Next to him, the bigger man writhed on the floor, screaming like a stuck pig. Shouts erupted from all over the store, and flashlights swung overhead, converging on his position.
Reese scrambled to his feet through the blinding pain, and his left hand bumped something solid and cold. In the fracas, he’d dropped the knife, or had it slipped out of his hand when they’d collided? He couldn’t recall, but he knew he was defenseless, so Reese grabbed the item he’d brushed against and found it to be the bigger man’s firearm. A large, heavy revolver.
Feeling somewhat like Dirty Harry, Reese hefted the hand cannon and staggered to his feet, ignoring the flashing lights and shouts from the man on the ground and his compatriots.
Reese turned and fled down the aisle, heading toward the back of the store, hoping the intruders were homing in on their downed comrade. The man was certainly making enough noise for them to track. The incident had happened so fast, it was over in a blink of the eye. He didn’t think he’d gotten the guy all that bad with the knife.
“They cut his hand off!” someone shouted in the darkness behind him over the injured man’s wailing.
Reese cocked an eyebrow as he shuffled down the aisle. That explained a lot. He was almost to the end of the aisle and kept his head down, scuttling forward on the outside edge of his shoes to keep them from squeaking on the linoleum floor. A light swung over his head, then jerked back and illuminated him from behind, casting his long shadow forward onto a display of toys.
“There!”
Reese opened his mouth to curse when the Lego box next to his head exploded in bits of cardboard and plastic. He ducked, dropping almost to the floor, and stumbled forward, just missing a bullet that sparked off a metal shelf, whining as it whistled away into the darkened store. Sporadic gunfire erupted near him, sounding like a small army at target practice.
Reese yelled as he dove behind the Lego display. Boxes exploded and showered him in tiny plastic blocks. He had to find cover—the toys were no match for incoming rounds. To buy himself time, he held the captured revolver over the display and fired blindly with his off hand at his attackers. One squeeze of the trigger and a thunderclap exploded from his hand. The gun jerked back as if it had been pulled by a rope, and Reese nearly dropped it.
“Hand cannon is right,” he muttered, looking at the smoking barrel. His ploy worked, however, and the attackers momentarily froze at the sound of his return fire. It was all the break he needed. Reese flung himself sideways and disappeared down a side aisle, running full out and not caring about the noise. After the deafening affect of the gunfire, he was counting on no one being able to hear soon, anyway.
Gunshots echoed inside the cavernous store like cracks of thunder, muzzle flashes from the pistols briefly illuminating the area around the shooters. Reese couldn't tell who was shooting from where, based on the reverberating echoes, so he decided to keep his head down and keep moving toward the exterior walls.
In a gap between shots, Reese heard footsteps pounding down his aisle—they were almost on top of him. Scrambling to find a way out, Reese realized he’d reached the far wall. Around him stood stacks of coolers, bundles of Tiki torches, and Tiki torch oil. He had found his way to the outdoor living section.
Neat piles of firewood, individually shrink-wrapped in small, easily carried bundles, filled up half a bay of industrial shelving to his right. Reese slipped into the shelving and crawled up onto the pile, pulling himself deeper into the shadows. He shimmied back as much as he could on the uncomfortable wooden nest he’d discovered and held his breath.
The footsteps grew closer, and Reese’s heart rate increased with every footfall. He closed his eyes and prayed. He knew he was in no shape to fight—he hadn’t had any sleep in almost 24 hours. His shoulder was all cut up, and his good hand trembled holding the revolver he’d captured. Exhausted, hungry, and desperately thirsty, Reese knew he didn’t stand a chance.
He opened his eyes. Cami and Amber still waited for him. The intruders, whoever they were, threatened to delay him even more than the tsunami had. His breathing calmed. His heart rate slowed. Anger bubbled up inside Reese and he gripped the revolver tighter. Afraid or not, exhausted or not—injured or not—nothing was going to stop him from getting home. If he had to take down every man in the building, so be it.
“There’s nothin’ over here,” complained a voice, shockingly close to Reese.
He adjusted the grip on the revolver and kept it on his chest, a comforting weight in the darkness.
A shout came from the other side of the store. “Forget it—the cops are coming!”
“You heard the man, let’s move!”
“This ain’t over,” muttered the man hidden in shadows near Reese.
Reese aimed the heavy revolver blindly into the aisle and waited. He had a general idea where the attacker was, based on his footsteps, but he didn’t want to fire without a target. So, he lay there, counting his breathes, ears ringing, until he could stand it no longer. Reese slowly uncurled from his hiding position and put his feet on the floor. The pistol he kept pointed in front of him, and he made his way across the aisle and worked back toward the middle of the cavernous department store.
Off to his right, light flared by the front of the store, doors rattled open, and several voices rang loud, calling out positions and covering flanks. Chief Foster and his men had arrived.
Reese picked up his pace and made it back to the area he, Ben, and Jo had camped out in during the night. Officer Glivens arrived at the same time.
“Hands up!” he yelled, pointing a powerful flashlight at Reese. “Drop the weapon—oh, it�
�s you.”
Reese grimaced and kept his eyes screwed shut. “Man, that’s the brightest flashlight I’ve ever seen!”
“Sorry about that,” Glivens said, lowering the light. “I saw the gun and didn’t catch the sling on your arm there. What are you doing running around here with a gun?”
“Lost my knife,” Reese said as he turned the gun around and offered it to Glivens butt-first. The cop took it and examined the weapon.
“This is a .357 Magnum. Where’d you get it?”
Reese shrugged. “Well, when those guys broke in, one jumped me—he had it and I panicked and kind of…”
Glivens aimed his light at Reese and looked him over, head to toe. “That’s a lot of blood. You okay?”
“What’s going on here?” demanded Jo, pushing closer to examine Reese. She was breathing heavy after running to fetch the police. “Did you open your sutures?” She poked at his shoulder and grunted. “Nope, I reckon they’re still holding. You musta had a great doc.”
“I think I stabbed him,” Reese told the cop.
“The doc?” asked Glivens.
“No, I’m fine,” Jo replied. “You boys sure know how to ruin a good joke.”
“Glivens! We got a lot of blood over here!” another officer called from across the store.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Glivens said to Reese with a stern look. He kept the revolver and trotted off, his utility belt making an awful racket as he went.
“What happened?” asked Jo, when they were alone.
“Just like I said, this guy jumped me and pulled a gun, so I just…I dunno, swung the knife and hit him. I have no idea if I killed him or cut him or what happened…”
Jo whistled, much like Glivens had. “Not bad, Bowie, not bad.”
Reese frowned. “Do not call me that.”
“I’m just sayin’,” Jo laughed, “if the name fits…ain’t no one else around here not only stopped a knife attack but took down one of the bad guys with a knife. You realize they all had guns, right?”
“Well, I don’t know how bad you hurt the guy, but there’s an awful lot of blood down that aisle. We found this,” Glivens said, walking back to them. He held up Reese’s bloody knife. “Keeps coming back to you, huh?”
“I just want to go home,” Reese muttered, taking the knife. Jo immediately took it from him and began wiping off the blade.
“Well, that knife will help,” Glivens said. “So will this,” he added, reversing his grip on the revolver and offering that to Reese as well. He shrugged at Reese’s raised eyebrow. “Looks like a clear-cut case of self defense to me. Plus, if the chief trusts you, so do I.”
“Thanks,” Reese said, taking the firearm.
“Where’s Ben?” Jo asked, looking around. “Ben?”
Glivens raised his flashlight and peered along the aisle. “I got blood at the end, there.”
The three of them ran to the end of the aisle where the flashlight created a puddle of light, marred by specks of bright red arterial blood. As they rounded the corner, the blood smeared and streaked across the linoleum, leading to Ben’s body, splayed out on the floor.
“Ben!” Reese cried out, falling to his knees. “Hey buddy, you okay?”
Jo crouched next to Reese, gently pushing him aside to examine Ben. He was laying at an odd angle, one arm outstretched, the crutch just out of reach. She put two fingers to his neck and looked down.
“Ben?” Reese asked, his voice tight. “Ben, buddy, say something…” he begged, patting Ben’s face. The skin felt slack.
When Jo looked up, her eyes glistened, and she gave the slightest shake of her head.
Reese sat back on his heels, disconnected and distant. His head, suddenly heavy, dropped down to his chest and he sat there for a long time, just breathing. He felt the grief and loss and pain flow through him like the tsunami waves that had wrecked his world and turned his life upside down.
Ben’s name would be added to the growing list of tragedies created by the tsunami. Reese shook his head.
Because I didn’t…because I couldn’t keep him safe.
“I’m sorry,” Glivens said, put a hand on Reese’s good shoulder. “He seemed like a good guy.”
Reese looked up, blinking away tears, and took a deep, shuddering breath. He leaned back and half collapsed, half shuffled until he could place his back against the aisle divider. Across the aisle, Ben’s body still lay exposed in Glivens’ light, in stark contrast to the pitch black of the store. Reese put his good hand to his face and knuckled his forehead, closing his eyes tight and clenching his jaw to the point of pain.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t possible. How could things go from normal to…to this in 48 hours? If he couldn’t even get Ben 15 miles from Mount Desert Island, how was he supposed to make it a thousand miles to South Carolina?
Reese shook his head. No, he wouldn’t give up on Cami and Amber. He clenched his hands into fists until his nails dug into the skin of his palms. He couldn’t give up on his family. He wouldn’t.
Reese stared at Ben’s body. Glivens finally had the decency to turn his light elsewhere, so the corpse was only partially lit as the other officers gathered to gawk and mumble. Jo eased herself to the floor next to Ben and closed his eyes with a gentle touch from her thick fingers.
“Vaya con dios, amigo,” she muttered.
Chapter 21
Lavelle Homestead
Northwest of Charleston, South Carolina
Cami jerked upright on the sofa, gasping for air and soaked in sweat. Amber stirred at the other end of the couch, one leg draped over the armrest. She snorted but didn’t wake.
Cami struggled to remember where she was, then it all came rushing back—the tsunami, the panic, the drive home, the gunshots in the night. Movement on the floor by the only door to the room forced her to wake.
Intruder!
She slapped her hand down by the side of the couch and came up with her pistol. One squeeze of her thumb on the pressure switch mounted to the grip and the blinding little LED light attached to the frame lit up, making Mitch throw an arm up in front of his face.
“Whoa, it’s me, it’s me!”
“Sorry,” Cami said, immediately lowering the weapon and switching off the light. “I was…what happened?”
“Gunshot,” Mitch said, rubbing his face. “Sounded like it was super close—way closer than the others last night.
Cami got off the couch and padded across the floor to the open windows they’d uncovered behind the media center that had occupied the wall for decades. Dawn glowed to the east, just around the corner of her garage. “Sun’s almost up,” she observed.
Another piercing gunshot made her flinch. Amber woke with a start from the couch, yelling about donuts. “Sssh!” Cami hissed over her shoulder.
“Sorry…” muttered Amber.
“It’s all good,” said Mitch, “at least you didn’t jump up waving a gun in my face.”
“Mom,” Amber complained around a yawn. “Really?”
“I didn’t wave anything,” Cami replied defensively. “I aimed.”
“Mom!”
Two quick gunshots split the morning air: tat-tat.
Cami nodded. “That was right outside. You two stay here.”
“But—” Mitch said as Cami rushed around him, flinging open the door and racing for the stairs.
“Mom, you don’t know what’s going on out there,” Amber warned.
“Stay there,” Cami called from the top of the foyer stairs.
She took the stairs two at a time and almost face planted on the foyer tile, but managed to hold her balance. She sprinted down the hall for the patio door. All she could think of was Marty Price defending his house against marauders, hopelessly outnumbered and—
Before Cami realized it, she found herself outside in the dew-slick grass—barefoot--in old boxer shorts and a ratty t-shirt. She muttered a curse, slipped in the wet grass, and spun around, looking for a target, pistol held ou
t in both hands.
“Easy there, tiger,” Marty Price’s grizzled voice called out from the tree line that separated their properties.
“Marty!” Cami called, turning in that direction and rushing toward the sound of his voice.
She pushed through the trees and looked around, trying to find her neighbor. “Marty? Where are you? I heard the shots—are you okay? What happened?”
The old man stepped out from behind an oak just to Cami’s right, nearly scaring her out of her mind. She yelped and dropped to a knee, bringing her weapon up on instinct. Marty stood there in full camo and cracked a grin on his weathered, wrinkled face.
“Why don’t you lower the pistol, missy. I wasn’t shooting at you.”
Cami dropped her aim and stood, while her cheeks flushed. “Sorry—I’m sorry, Marty…you just startled me.”
“Well, you got good instincts, but you’d have been dead if I’d wanted.” He lost the smile and shook his head sadly. “Gonna have to work on that.”
“What do you mean, I’d have been dead—Marty, what is going on here?”
“Let’s stop waving that pea-shooter around—”
“I was aiming!” she snapped. “What is it with everyone today…”
“I had you dead to rights when you ran outta your house like your hair was on fire. You got to think tactically from now on, missy.”
“Missy?” Cami said, cocking her head. She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind for waking her up at such an ungodly hour when he shuffled to the left and her eyes fell on two corpses, covered in grayish, mottled fur.
“Coyotes,” Marty said, watching her. “Took ‘em just now, trying to get at my quail. Can’t have that. Got to protect my littles.”
Cami brought her hand up to her mouth to hide her smile at such a grizzled old man calling quail his “littles,” like they were beloved grandchildren.
“They want the meat, see?” Marty said, looking down at the dead coyotes. “But I do too, and I got this,” He grinned at her, holding up his AR. “Natural cunning and youth is no match for age, experience, and deception.” He spat on the corpses.
Broken Tide | Book 1 | Overfall Page 22