by John Grit
In seconds, they were driving down the street in an attempt to get out of town.
Chapter 22
Carla readied her machine pistol, while Raylan drove. She handed the M4 to him. Raylan looked her way and their eyes locked. “Too late,” she said. “The bastard had already called it in. We have three SUVs on our ass.”
“Get my vest.” By all outward appearances, Raylan was unflappable as ever. Inside, he was worried. They had to buy time enough to exit the motor home and run to real cover. There was no outrunning them and no way they could fight from inside the RV, not and survive.
Carla helped him get into his vest while keeping the RV straight on the road. It had pouches holding eight thirty-round magazines for the M4. He knew he was going to need every round. Glancing at the side mirror, he said, “Two more SUVs behind us now.”
She looked back and turned pale. “Why in the hell did they have so much heat in this little town? They must have been onto us way before we stopped to eat and have been waiting for reinforcements to arrive.” Carla unzipped a bag full of magazines for her MP5 and stuffed them into her photographer’s vest pockets until they could hold no more. She stood and looked out the rear window. “Damn it. I was hoping we would have more time together.”
“Just fall back on your training and experience. We’re not dead yet. I do wish we had stopped in Nevada and gotten married.”
She froze for a second and the corners of her mouth twitched. “As far as I’m concerned, we are married.” She leaned down and kissed him.
Raylan reached up and brushed her face lightly with his left hand. “It’s me they want. If I stop at the right place, you can bail and run for it. They’ll probably let you go and follow me.”
She gave him a wintry smile. “We stay together and live or die together.”
He looked away, blinking. “Help me find the right place to pull off the road. It’ll make a lot of difference. We need bullet-stopping cover, a defendable position, to have a chance.”
She checked the rear window. “They’re still biding their time, probably hoping we’ll lead them to a more isolated place with fewer bystanders.”
Raylan yelled out, “Bridge ahead. I’ve got an idea. We’ll have to leave the RV and carjack a ride.”
Carla grabbed their passports and other documents. They would need those – if they got away. She knew Raylan had all of their cash in a money belt that he was wearing. After strapping herself in a seat, she said, “Ready.”
Raylan chose a pickup that was occupied by only the driver, a young man who appeared to be capable of handling a vehicle. He yanked the wheel to the left and clipped the rear of the pickup as it went by in the opposing lane, sending it careening sideways and leaving it partially blocking both lanes. Raylan hit the gas and let several cars in the other lane go by before taking advantage of a gap in oncoming traffic and whipping the wheel to the left again, jamming the left front bumper into the railing and completely blocking both lanes of the narrow bridge. He killed the engine and yanked the key out.
In seconds, Raylan and Carla were out of the RV and running, their weapons in hand. Open-mouthed drivers slammed on their brakes and lay in their seats, hoping the armed couple would pass them by. Bullets whistling over their heads told Raylan and Carla their pursuers were on foot and had managed to get around the RV. All traffic from the other direction had stopped. They ducked in behind a dump truck for cover. Bullets slammed into sheet metal. The obese driver was smart enough to lie on the floorboard, where he had the protection of the engine block.
Raylan leaned out just far enough to aim around the corner of the dump truck and fire from his left shoulder. His M4 chattered out a four-round burst to lay down cover fire, while Carla prepared to shoot. Three bullets drilled holes into the side of the RV, but one found its target, center-massing the hapless killer. He fell, dead before he hit the ground.
Throwing herself to the concrete, Carla shouldered the MP5 and squeezed off three shots on semi auto. The two lead men went down hard, their Krinkovs clattering on the pavement after her rounds tore through their chests. A third man spun and fell after one of Raylan’s shots clipped his shoulder, but they were too far away for the for full-auto to be accurate, so he thumbed it to semi.
Carla fired another two quick shots, and the fourth man’s throat ripped open, resulting in a bright red arterial spurt. She yelled, “Moving!”
She crawled towards the sedan behind the dump truck, while Raylan lay down covering fire. She just made it when slugs ricocheted off the concrete bridge railing a foot from her head, sending bullet fragments into the side of her face. Two men had snuck up on them by staying on the far left side of the bridge. Carla thumbed the selector to full-auto and loosed a long burst, ripping into the men. They fell as Raylan ran in a crouch, staying on the other of the sedan to keep out of her line of fire. Down the road, more men were working their way around the RV, she reached into a vest pocket with her free hand for a fresh magazine, then slammed it into the MP5. Ignoring her burning face, blood mixing with sweat and dripping from her chin, she fired a burst.
“Peel back!” Raylan yelled. “I’ll hold them. You jack a car and back it up here to pick me up. We need to get out if this before it turns bad.”
“This isn’t bad?” she yelled, before taking off on a run, bullets singing past her.
Raylan peered around the rear pumper and emptied a magazine load at the gunmen. There seemed to be no end to them, as they came around both ends of the RV, firing wildly, spraying into occupied vehicles, not caring who they killed. During short lulls in the gunfire, Raylan heard women and children screaming. The fat dump truck driver prayed out loud.
He emptied a magazine into the killers, and saw several drop. “You assholes are going to kill them all!” His decision made, he ran down the road, hoping Carla had a ride for them. Staying where he could pick them off as they came around the RV was the tactically correct thing to do, but it meant more innocent people would die. Thin car bodies were no match for the rounds the Russians were firing, and those taking refuge in their cars were helpless.
The gunfire from behind increased as he ran, weaving between parked cars, trying to dodge death, knowing he was putting others in danger and praying no bullet would hit human flesh. A white Buick came into view, racing toward him in reverse down the wrong side of the bridge, horn blaring.
Carla swerved and slammed on the brakes, stopping with the passenger door right in front of him. He fired two bursts and jumped in. She floored the pedal. The car she had taken at gunpoint from a twenty-two-year-old man was equipped with a powerful V8, and she had the tires smoking, accelerating to ninety by the time they reached the end of the bridge, keeping her hand heavy on the horn.
The road ahead appeared to be clear enough they could make their escape. Raylan almost smiled, but his relief turned to alarm as a black SUV exploded from a side street and stopped in front of them. There was no time for Carla to do anything but stand on the brakes with both feet. The Buick torpedoed the driver side of the SUV at forty miles per hour. Neither Carla nor Raylan had strapped themselves in, and only the airbags saved their lives.
Stunned, Raylan fought the air bag and found his M4. He staggered out of the crumbled, smoking Buick and onto the road. His vision was blurred, but he could see well enough to spray the SUV with bullets. After making certain no threats lingered in the disabled vehicle, he ran around to the driver side and yanked the door open. Carla moaned. Her eyes were unfocused. He pulled her out and lowered her to the asphalt. Bullets hammering the car door interrupted him. He turned and fired from the rice paddy squat position at two Russians taking cover behind a two-feet-high brick planter between the street and the sidewalk. A police cruiser raced up, siren blaring, and screeched to a stop. The officer had no time to react before a burst from a Krinkov shattered his windshield. He died where he sat. The man who had fired the shot calmly stepped out of another black SUV and reloaded while standing in the street. Raylan pumped
three rounds into him, the tungsten-core bullets penetrating his Kevlar vest. More killers bailed from the SUV, and still another SUV came racing up, stopping in the street to the left of Raylan, forcing him to fire at two divergent positions and weakening the effect of his fire. The traffic snarled into a jam that no driver could penetrate. Horns blared, sounding like frantic screams for help. Innocent citizens were trapped in a deadly street battle with no way to escape. The other group of killers on the bridge would come running up from behind at any moment. Raylan fired in desperation, knowing it was almost over.
A police officer drove his cruiser down the sidewalk to get past the traffic snarl and stopped fifty yards away. Raylan’s mind raced, as he tried to decide what to do. A shot ricocheted off the asphalt and ripped into Carla’s side and out the other, leaving six inches of entrails hanging out and making up his mind for him. He turned white and stared at her for a second.
Just then, the Russians fired at the two officers. They were more fortunate than the first one and had made it out of the cruiser and behind cover, but the patrol car was shot to pieces with full automatic fire. The officers hunkered behind cover and looked on in astonishment as Raylan rose to his feet, advancing on the Russians, firing burst after burst into them, reloading without taking cover, without removing the M4 from his shoulder, reloading in three seconds each time, and keeping a steady rate of withering fire, the hail of bullets his only shield.
All they knew was the men behind the SUVs were shooting at them and Raylan wasn’t, so they covered him as best they could with their pistols. Raylan advanced to twenty yards and still kept coming, his smoking M4 belching death, bullets whistling past his head.
Then, from every direction, rifles, shotguns, and handguns emerged from dusty or muddy 4X4 pickups with big tires, and men ran through the traffic jam to take up safe positions and fire on the Russians. The alarm had been broadcast by CB radio, and Tennessee country boys were backing up their local law enforcement officers. A round took out Raylan’s right leg. He dropped to the asphalt, his head bouncing, but he held onto the carbine and continued to fire. Reaching for another magazine, he learned he was out. In a second, he was firing with his pistol and crawling to the nearest SUV. Another round knocked his left arm out from under him. He lay on his side and fired at Russian boots, all he could see.
More officers arrived, and the battle was soon over. By the time an officer checked on Raylan, he was not breathing. A round had entered under his right armpit and punched a hole in his lung. Paramedics arrived and took the wounded away.
Raylan was among them, but he wouldn’t know it until the next day when he woke in a hospital, heavily sedated and chained to the bed by his wrists, ankles, and waist. A man in a suit got out of a chair and held a badge in front of Raylan’s face that said Department of Justice. Raylan could barely focus his eyes, but he knew what it said. Then the man leaned down and said, “Carla Baylor died on scene.”
Somehow the fact it wasn’t a surprise to him didn’t ease the pain at all. He turned his face and blinked tears. A nurse came in to check on him because an alarm had gone off. She scowled at the agent and upped the sedative. Raylan drifted away.
Chapter 23
Janowski spoke in a deliberate tone, trying not to sound to President Riley as if he might be gloating over owning a President of the United States of America, even though he was. “Our business relationship has been good for us both. Now I’m wondering if you would like to earn an easy ten million.”
Riley glanced at the other men in the room. A technician from the NSA nodded. “Well, that’s quite a sum to add to my retirement when my term runs out and I go back to civilian life. What exactly is it you need from me?”
Janowski wet his lips. “A simple thing really. Compared to the services you’ve provided in the past, it’s nothing. I want Raylan Maddox delivered to me alive. He’s been a thorn in both our sides for far too long.”
Riley had been waiting days to hear those words. “We just so happen to have him in our custody. But you already knew that, of course. The woman he was with, Carla Baylor I think her name was, died in a gunfight when he was captured. Still, it’s not as simple as you seem to think. I’ll get back with you late tomorrow, probably in the evening. Just maybe we can arrange something. I’m thinking our Patriot Act may make it possible for Maddox to just disappear.”
“I’ll be awaiting your call.” Janowski hung up, barely able to contain his excitement. He walked out onto his balcony and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Yes!”
Trey yanked his earphones off. Giving Riley a cold stare, he asked, “How long can we keep this charade up before a lot of innocent people get hurt?”
Riley’s smile faded. “What on earth are you talking about? Who is going to get hurt? I mean besides Maddox.”
Trey’s unease intensified, and his pissed-off meter pegged out. “Isn’t that enough?”
Riley sighed. “It was a joke.”
Trey continued. “Then there’s the fact he can’t be moved yet. It would likely kill him. Not for another week at least, and we should shut this operation down much sooner than that.”
“We have Janowski on our hook. Let him dangle a while.”
“What about those women Janowski smuggled in to be sold as slaves? If we wait too long, we’ll certainly lose track of them and never be able to save them from a personal hell. We know they’re being held in a house in New Jersey, but their captors may slip our surveillance and then those girls and women are gone forever. What about the automatic weapons being distributed to gangbangers and other criminals? The blood will flow in Chicago, Detroit, and LA.”
Riley looked around the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, please tell him we have it all under control and none of the things he fears will happen.”
Director Ottoman spoke first. “He’s right, Mr. President. We must finish this soon, before it turns on us and bites us all in the ass.”
Riley waved him off. “Yes, yes, I understand, but don’t you see? Maddox is the real bait, what Janowski wanted all along. Tomorrow I will call him and set up the exchange.”
Trey was stunned. “You’re really going to give Maddox to Janowski, aren’t you?”
Riley faced him, eye-to-eye, though Trey was three inches taller. “Maddox is the only thing that could possibly lure Janowski back into U.S. jurisdiction, where he can be apprehended.” Riley rubbed his hands together, still excited over his possible success. At that moment, he felt much the way he did after killing James Dulling, except this time he didn’t have a letter opener stuck in his chest. The irony of using Raylan Maddox as a tool for his own means wasn’t lost on him either. “We had nothing on him that would hold up in court when he was in the States a while back. Well, thanks to all of our hard work, we now have plenty to put him away for life. And the legalities are all taken care of this time, because the Justice Department is involved and not the intelligence community alone.”
“That’s bullshit, Mr. President,” Trey said. “After all the people the CIA has taken out with no legalities involved whatsoever, including elected leaders of nations, we didn’t need an okay from Justice to kill a piece of shit like Janowski.”
Riley looked up at the ceiling for a second, as if trying to muster patience. “You disregard the position I’m in. The position I’ve been in since James tainted the reputation of my presidency and of the already tarnished CIA.”
Trey pushed it, but, used more self-control this time. “You could have at least kept him out of the country by putting him on a no-fly list, and his private jet wouldn’t have been allowed in U.S. airspace. Hell, you could have used the Patriot Act, and he would have disappeared into a black hole. We all knew he was here to personally supervise the hunt for Maddox and Baylor, yet we stood by and let it happen.”
Director Ottoman interjected, “You’re talking to the President of the United States, Mr. Kraust.”
Riley motioned for Ottoman to stop and moved closer to Trey, appearing to feel more
betrayed than Trey did at the moment. “Trey, don’t you know what this is all about by now? Haven’t I earned your trust? Not a dime of Janowski’s blood money has or will ever be spent by me. This is about Mi…my legacy. I’m cleansing the stench of James Dulling out of this office. I may never shed his shame from my presidency, and historians will never place me near the top of America’s best presidents, but his stench will be cleansed from this office before my term is up.”
Blood vessels on Trey’s neck pulsed. “The question I asked is are you going to give Maddox to Janowski?”
“Maddox will be there in chains. It’s the only way to be sure Janowski shows. He has moles in every agency. They will tip him off if Maddox isn’t there.”
Trey nearly screamed, “Why won’t you answer the question?”
Riley’s jaw clenched. “I already have. Janowski will be arrested as soon as his plane lands on American soil.”
Trey tried again. “A yes or no will do, Mr. President.”
“No. The answer is no.”
Trey relaxed a ton of coiled tension within him. “Thank you for answering my question.”
Riley looked at Trey with disappointment on his face. “You’ll see. This will all be over soon. Just remember the moles. Don’t talk about this to anyone. We want Janowski to believe we’re handing Maddox over to him.”
~~~
“You must eat,” the nurse said.
Raylan said nothing, just turned his face away. The metallic clang of the chains echoed in the small room when he tried to turn on his side, forgetting the chains wouldn’t allow that much movement. They were several gauges too heavy for a mere man. He wondered if they thought he was an ape and not a human being. The weight of the waist chain on his stomach was uncomfortable, because of his many wounds. His lung wound already made it hard to breathe, and the chains didn’t help. He could not remember ever feeling lower. The guilt of dragging Carla into something that wasn’t connected to her at all, causing her death, was eating at him.