Shadow Girl

by Gerry Schmitt

  When Max rang off, Afton said, “Now what?”

  “We stay put,” Max said. “We sit tight until a SWAT unit arrives. They’re armoring up right now. Thacker called for a full-court press.”

  “We sit here and wait?” Afton said. “But what if Terrell and Snell need help now?”

  “Can’t be helped. Those are our orders.”

  “Yeah, but . . . oh, jeez.” Afton jerked her head forward in disbelief. “We got some major activity going on over there.”

  “What?” Max focused his sights on the casket factory, where a large garage door had just rolled up.

  “You see that?” Afton asked. “Looks like somebody’s making a run for it.”

  “Damn. I hope the shit didn’t just hit the fan.”

  “Still want to sit tight?” Afton wasn’t needling Max; she was just anxious. It felt like bugs were crawling through her veins.

  “I gotta . . .” Max said.

  “You gotta do something. You gotta see what’s going on.”

  But Max was already reaching for his Glock 9mm. Checking it, checking it again.

  “You got one of those for me?” Afton asked.

  “No way. You stay here.”

  “Hell no,” Afton said. “You can’t go in there alone.” She could see some sort of van in the building up ahead, but it hadn’t backed out yet. “You might need backup.”

  “Afton . . . no.”

  “Gimme your extra piece.”

  “I don’t have an extra,” Max said.

  “The one in the glove box?” Afton was already popping open the glove box, pawing for the gun.

  “Damn, woman,” Max swore. His shoulders hunched forward and every muscle seemed to tighten. “Okay, but I go in there first. You stay way behind me. If we run into problems, you run like hell and wait for the cavalry to arrive. Is that understood?”

  “Perfectly,” Afton said.

  But Max wasn’t finished. “The only way you fire your weapon is if there’s a clear and present threat to your person. I can take care of myself. Do not defend me, just run for cover if it all goes to hell.” He paused. “You sure you can handle that weapon?”

  Afton clicked the clip release, dropped the clip into the palm of her hand, and then slammed it back home. She shoved the slide open and rifled a bullet into the chamber. “Got it.”

  The last thing Max said as they climbed out of the car was, “Thacker is really going to be pissed.”

  Afton’s last thought was of her kids.

  51

  AFTON and Max crept up to the casket factory, dodging behind trees, hiding behind parked cars. The side of the enormous brick building that faced them had two sets of garage doors—one yawned open to reveal a parked van; the other door remained closed. Down to the far left of the building was a large cement loading dock and, just beyond that, a strip of overgrown weeds and then several sets of train tracks. Afton figured that some of the tracks were still in use, while others had fallen into disrepair.

  As Max ran on ahead of her, Afton feared that he was way too exposed. But he managed to trot across the street and then press himself up against the side of the building without being noticed. Now he was about four feet from the garage door opening, hiding behind a brick column that jutted out.

  Good. He made it.

  Max glanced back at her and shook his head. He didn’t want her to follow him. Well, that was just tough, because there was no way she was going to let him creep into that building all by himself.

  Glancing left and then right, Afton ran lightly across the street and joined him, pressing her shoulder up against the brick wall.

  “Are you crazy?” Max whispered. “Get out of here. Go around the corner and wait for SWAT to arrive.”

  But Afton wasn’t about to budge.

  Just as Max tried to shove her away, there was a jabber of excited voices from inside.

  Afton cocked her head, listening. What? Several men were all talking at once in a foreign language that sounded like Chinese . . . or Thai.

  “Holy shit,” Max whispered. “Those people from Bangkok?”

  There was the metallic sound of a door being slammed.

  “That’s a car door,” Afton mouthed. “They’re getting ready to leave. You have to . . .”

  Max pulled his face into a harsh grimace. He knew this was it. He had to make some sort of preemptive move.

  Getting up his guts, he eased his way to the opening, his weapon leading the way.

  “Police!” Max shouted. “Put your hands in the air!”

  There was sudden angry shouting and then the whine of a bullet streaking past Max’s head.

  “Put down your weapons!” Max shouted. But nobody seemed to be listening, as two more bullets whipped past him.

  “Damn,” Max said, backing up, practically smashing against Afton.

  “You think you can hold them until SWAT arrives?” she shouted, trying to make herself heard above the frantic din inside.

  Max shook his head. “I don’t know. I think there’s four of them in there.”

  “How many have guns?” she asked.

  “I’m guessing maybe . . . two or three?”

  The van’s engine roared to life and a glut of exhaust fumes blew out the garage door.

  “We can’t let ’em go,” Afton said, gritting her teeth.

  Max peeked around the corner again and yelled, “Throw down your weapons!”

  “Kill him!” a woman’s voice shrieked. “Kill him now!”

  “That’s gotta be the old woman!” Afton yelled as Max popped around the corner, fast as a serpent’s bite, and—BAM! BAM!—fired two more shots.

  Inside the garage, mad panic continued. Shrill voices shouting and arguing in a language Afton and Max were both convinced was Thai.

  Then Max dodged inside, pressed himself up against the front grill of the van, and fired two more shots.

  “Weapons down!” he ordered. “Everyone put your weapons down!”

  Afton peeped around the corner and saw three young Asian men—none of them her attacker—standing there with their hands raised over their heads. They’d placed their weapons on the ground and surrendered. Good, she thought. No shoot-out at the OK Corral. Maybe Max had this under control after all.

  But nothing ever comes easy.

  A tough-looking hillbilly suddenly leaped out from behind the van, yanking an old lady with him and positioning her in front of him like a human shield. One hand held a gun to her head; the other hand was curled around her throat, squeezing hard. “Out of my way,” he bellowed.

  “Let go of me, you fool,” the old woman gasped. She struggled violently, kicking and trying to twist out of his grasp.

  “Shut up, bitch,” Hack snarled. “Or I’ll crush your windpipe so hard your eyes will pop out like grapes.”

  The old woman sputtered and struggled, but the hillbilly just gripped her tighter.

  “Gaagh!” the old lady croaked, her face blooming bright pink.

  “Nobody needs to get hurt,” Max said in a level voice. His gun was pointed directly at the hillbilly and the old lady as time seemed to slow down, as if all the participants were mired in concrete. “Just let her go and we can work this out.”

  Afton wasn’t quite so optimistic. The hillbilly looked like a tough bastard. He didn’t look like he had any intention of letting the old lady go. Besides, where was . . . ?

  Like a malevolent banshee rising from the forest, the Asian man who’d just attacked Afton some two hours earlier sprang out of the van. His voice was a wild howl as he waved an enormous knife above his head and threw himself at Max like some sort of hellish apparition.

  Max fired instantly. There was a loud pop and a huge explosion of red, as if an enormous blood bubble had suddenly burst. Then the Asian man made a high-pitched yipping sound and grabbed his wounded hand, the knife clattering to the floor.

  “See, now,” Max said to the hillbilly. “Now it’s your turn to be sensible. Put down your weapon a
nd let the lady go.”

  A stupid grin creased the hillbilly’s face. “No can do, my friend. The two of us are gettin’ in that van and driving out of here.”

  “Let her go now,” Max pressed. Like a chameleon, Mom Chao Cherry’s face had gone from pink to purple and her arms were flailing as if she were trying to teach herself to dog paddle.

  Hack dragged Mom Chao Cherry toward the front of the van, bending her backward to cover himself.

  “This isn’t going to end well,” Afton said. Along with Max, she had her gun trained on Hack. But she was also watching her wounded attacker, who glared at her with hate-filled eyes. Weren’t wounded animals the most dangerous kind? Sure, they were. Probably wounded people, too.

  As if moving in slow motion, Hack eased his way to the van’s front door and pulled it open. He would have to scramble inside, mounting a fairly high step as he dragged the woman along with him. Could he manage that? Afton wasn’t sure. All she knew was that Max didn’t have a clean shot and neither did she.

  But Hack had another trick up his sleeve. In one smooth, balletic twirling motion, he reached into the van and pulled out a thin piece of wire. He slipped it over Mom Chao Cherry’s head and pulled it tight as a noose.

  Mom Chao Cherry let loose another agonized moan. “Agggh!” A thin line of blood appeared around her throat, like a channel-set necklace of bright red rubies.

  “SWAT units are on the way,” Max threatened. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  Practically lifting the old lady off her feet now, Hack sawed mercilessly at her throat, “Back off or I’ll cut her deeper.”

  “Help!” Mom Chao Cherry cried. She sounded like a garbled crow. “Shooot him!” Blood dripped freely from her throat now, spattering the floor.

  “He’s killing her,” Afton hissed.

  “Shut up!” Hack grated. He figured that neither Afton nor Max would risk taking a shot at him. “Just lower your guns while I pull this old bitch into the truck with me.”

  Afton lowered her gun. Max wavered.

  “Come on, now,” Hack coaxed as he half pulled, half dragged Mom Chao Cherry into the front seat. “Just stay frosty.”

  “I’m cool,” Max said, lowering his weapon.

  “Good,” Hack said. “Smart. No need to go off half-cocked.”

  “Just ease up on her, will you?” Afton asked. “At least let her breathe.”

  “Whatever,” Hack said, flashing a hard, cheesy smile.

  Whatever, indeed. It was the instant Mom Chao Cherry was waiting for. Maybe Hack’s hand slipped a notch from all that blood bubbling out of her neck. Or he let down his guard because she was practically sitting in his lap.

  Like a pissed-off weasel that had been biding its time, she spun all the way around to face him, stretched out her wounded neck, and sank her teeth into Hack’s lower lip!

  “Aggh!” Hack screamed. The old lady hung on like a rat terrier, tearing and ripping, her dark eyes furious. Hack screamed again, practically yodeling as blood began to seriously spurt from his mouth.

  A moment later, Mom Chao Cherry clawed viciously at Hack’s eyes. Her long nails, like razor-sharp talons, dug in deep, pulling his eyelids downward until he looked like a melting pumpkin.

  “Get off!” Hack screamed. His fist shot up and violently clubbed Mom Chao Cherry in the side of the head.

  In that split second, as the old lady released her bite and her head bounced back, Max snapped his gun back up and shot Hack right between the eyes.

  “Holy crap!” Afton screamed as blood and brains blew everywhere. The old woman looked almost quizzical as she raised both hands to paw wildly at her bloody throat. Then she pitched forward and tumbled from the van.

  Just for an instant, a fleeting emotion seemed to play across Mom Chao Cherry’s lined face. Perhaps it was pain; perhaps it was a sadness that a lifetime of killing and assassinations had come to this. Then it was gone, like the energy expended by a dying firefly, and she hit the cement floor like a sack of flour.

  Prasong, the youngest of the three men who’d had his hands raised high, took advantage of the moment that had everyone stunned. He turned and bolted for the doorway, giving it all he had.

  Wasting not a millisecond, Narong also spun away from the bizarre scene. He plunged down a long hallway in a full-on mad sprint and disappeared into darkness.

  “Damn it!” Afton shouted as she turned and ran after him.

  “No!” Max called after her, his voice echoing hollowly in the old building. But there was no stopping her.

  Afton sprinted down the hallway, glancing into dirty and dilapidated rooms and work spaces along the way. Most of them had windows that still allowed a small amount of light. One large room held a row of rusted sewing machines where workers had once stitched burial gowns.

  But Afton knew Narong wasn’t hiding in any of these rooms. She could hear him up ahead of her, breathing heavily, his footsteps drilling hard against the floor. She was determined to catch him. Once she did, she’d beat his brains into the ground as payback.

  Droplets of fresh blood from Narong’s injured hand spattered the dirty tiles in the hallway as Afton, hot on his heels, followed the trail. The corridor hooked left and, suddenly, there he was. All the way across a debris-strewn room, scrambling up an exterior stone wall like a scuttling spider.

  “Stop!” Afton shouted. She dropped into a shooter’s stance and pointed her gun at Narong as he leaped up onto a window ledge. Cradling his wounded hand, he screamed at the top of his lungs and kicked frantically at a grimy window, his face as red as fresh liver.

  With a growl that came from deep inside her throat, Afton aimed her gun at Narong, meaning to hit him in the leg. To wound him. Cripple him.

  He moved at the last second and her shot missed, kicking up a hail of broken glass and wooden splinters.

  With one final, solid kick, Narong shattered the window, shards of glass exploding everywhere. Clambering out onto the ledge, he hesitated for a single moment, and then jumped down.

  Afton was right on his heels. With her flexibility, honed from years of rock climbing and running, she sprang through the window and brushed past the broken glass without hesitation. She felt the ground rush up to meet her, put out her hands to cushion her fall, and did a basic somersault into the weeds. Then she was up and running after Narong, still with the gun in her hand, screaming at him, totally lost in fury.

  “You tried to kill me!” Afton screamed. “You almost killed my kids!” She ran like there was no tomorrow. Crushed rock bit through the soles of her shoes, and sand burrs clung to her ankles as she pounded after Narong.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, Narong flashed a triumphant glance as he raced toward the railroad tracks.

  A train was coming, rolling languidly down the tracks.

  Damn, Afton thought as the train’s whistle broke the silence. He’s going to beat that thing. He’s going to jump across the tracks and I’m going to be stuck over here.

  She skidded to a stop and aimed her gun. Sighting the man’s back, she placed her finger on the trigger. It would be so easy. A quick flex of her right index finger and this man would be dead. This man who had wantonly killed, who had dared threaten her and her family, would never cause a lick of trouble again. But if she just pulled the trigger and blew him away, it would be cold-blooded murder. Could she live with that?

  The green-and-yellow engine pulling three dozen dingy-looking refrigerator cars rolled closer. Afton’s gun wavered as she watched Narong sprint for the tracks. He’d be gone in a matter of seconds. Disappeared just like before. But maybe . . . still out there? Maybe still coming after her? Her finger twitched. If she aimed for his right thigh, could she make the shot?

  She pulled the trigger just as, with a careless leap, Narong hurled himself in front of the engine.

  Narong knew full well that he could make it across, felt smug about cutting off Afton’s only chance to catch him.

  Narong misjudged.

&n
bsp; Maybe it was his wounded hand that caused him to lose focus and stumble, maybe it was fate coming to collect its due.

  Steel wheels ground against rails as the train fought to brake. Then a geyser of blood spurted up, an arterial spray that painted the embankment bright red.

  Afton watched in horror as Narong’s body rolled and twisted like a rag doll as it was dragged down the railroad track for a good five hundred yards. His legs bobbled over wooden railroad ties; sharp red rocks flayed his skin.

  Afton looked away, feeling no satisfaction at all.

  52

  BUT it wasn’t over yet. Shaken to the core by Narong’s horrific death, Afton still had the presence of mind to dash back inside the casket factory.

  Max was there, of course, maintaining shaky control. His Glock in one hand, his cell phone in the other. Hack was dead, Mom Chao Cherry was bleeding profusely, and the remaining two Asian men had been herded up against a wall and looked like they were ready to cry.

  “Where’s Terrell?” Afton shouted.

  Max shook his head. He was pale as a ghost and looked like he was barely hanging on. Shock.

  Afton ripped the scarf from around her neck and went to aid Mom Chao Cherry, who was crouched against the back wheel of the van.

  “How bad?” the old woman quavered. “Will I die? I’m not ready to die.”

  “Let me look.” Afton pried the old woman’s hand away from her neck and checked the wound. It was deep and still oozing blood but probably not fatal if she got medical attention fairly soon. “If we can get an ambulance here in the next four minutes, I think you’ll live.”

  “Ambulance is two minutes out,” Max said. “So is SWAT.”

  “Okay, then,” Afton said. She focused on the old woman. “Where’s the girl?”

  The old woman shook her head.

  “Terrell? Is she here?”

  The old woman stared with the black-eyed malice of an angry jackal.