Perilous

by E. H. Reinhard

  “I feel the same way. I’m watching, Carl.” Jeff said.

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to you guys later.” I clicked over to the other line. “Yeah, Faust.”

  “Do you have a pen handy?” he asked.

  “I will in a second.” I covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Sommer, let me get your notepad and pen again.”

  He handed them to me. “Just hang on to them.”

  I took them and brought the phone back to my mouth. “Ready.”

  “We got two different GPS locations on the phones. I looked them up and got the addresses. One is at your father’s. The other three were at another address.”

  He rattled the address off. I wrote it down, ripped the page out, and handed it to Sommer. I covered the mouthpiece again. “Sommer, call a couple of guys from my father’s house to back us up. That’s our address.”

  “Let’s go.” He pointed toward the door. “Wakkman, come on!” he shouted.

  The three of us left the front of the house.

  Faust was still on the line as I hopped in the passenger side of Sommer’s cruiser. “Kane?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here,” I said.

  “The three phones dropped GPS signal about two minutes after we got them. The place looks like it’s just north of your father’s, about fifteen minutes.”

  I relayed the message to Sommer, and he called it over his radio. Wakkman followed us out of the driveway and north. I glanced in the side mirror. In the distance behind Wakkman, I saw the lights of more squad cars.

  “Are you in the area still?” Faust asked.

  “Yeah. We’re leaving for the address now.”

  “How far out are you?”

  I covered the mouthpiece. “How far away, Sommer?” I asked.

  “Thirteen minutes.”

  I put my mouth back to the phone. “Thirteen minutes,” I said.

  “It will be almost twenty minutes since we’ve had a signal by the time you get there, but I’ll let you know if we get a ping somewhere else,” Faust said.

  “Okay, good. What did you get on the names?”

  “Daniel Juares is a fake. Though he did just take a flight from Tampa to Milwaukee. Your guy is Jose Gomez. He got popped for robbery a couple years back. He spent a little over a year at USP Coleman. So he has ties to Coleman, where Azarov is. I’m guessing that’s not a coincidence.”

  “I’d say you’re right. Anything else on him?”

  “Not really. No clue as to why he was out in the woods, shooting at you. He’s a criminal, but nothing to suggest a hired gun. I’m working on pulling his actual phone records now, and we’re looking into his time at Coleman, to see who he ran with there.”

  “Thanks, Faust.”

  “Ask about the other name while you have him on the line,” Sommer said.

  I looked at Sommer and nodded. “Hey, Faust, I have another name—Carlos Cruz.”

  “Hold on.”

  I waited roughly a minute.

  “You still there?” Faust asked.

  “Yup.”

  “This guy is another graduate of USP Coleman. It seems Mr. Cruz is a little more rough around the edges than Mr. Gomez. He got out a few years ago after doing five years for gun charges. He had a stint in the Marines prior. Looks like he got into drugs, guns, and a string of B and E’s after being discharged. What’s the deal with this guy?”

  “He rented the cars they are using.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense. The other guy had a fake ID that was good enough to fly with, and this guy uses his real name and information to rent two cars that they plan to commit crimes with?”

  “I don’t know, Faust.”

  “Let me know what you get at your next stop. I’m going to do a little more digging here. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks.”

  I hung up and filled in Sommer on the new information.

  We made a left off the main street ten minutes later.

  Shortly after we turned, Sommer’s radio came alive with a 9-1-1 call. He responded and then looked at me.

  “That call just came from the address we are headed to.”

  “What did they say?” I asked.

  “No one said anything.”

  Sommer immediately pulled to the side of the road. Wakkman did the same behind us, as did the two cruisers who’d caught up. We stepped out of the car, and the deputies gathered.

  “Everyone just receive that call?” Sommer asked.

  The men all confirmed.

  “What do we make of it?” Wakkman asked.

  “I don’t know. We’ll find out in a minute,” Sommer said. “Here is how this is going to go down. No lights, no sirens. When you see me kill the headlights, you do the same. The lieutenant here and I will pull past the driveway. We’ll pull sideways in the road to block anyone trying to go west. Wakkman, pull in front of the driveway.” He looked to the other two deputies. “Howard, you pull behind Wakkman.” The deputy named Howard confirmed. “Clements, you’re going to mirror me, blocking the road to the east.”

  “Okay,” Clements said.

  “Body armor goes on now if you’re not already wearing it. Get suited up, and let’s get up there. The address is a mile or so up this road. We’ll park in our positions, group, and approach the house. We may be dealing with hostages, so no shots inside unless we have a clear view. Got it?” he asked.

  They all confirmed.

  We disbanded. Sommer stopped at his trunk and pulled a vest from inside. “Put that on,” he said, handing it to me.

  I pushed it back toward him. “I’m not taking your vest.”

  He slapped his coat. “I’m wearing mine. That’s an extra.”

  I took off my jacket, strapped the vest on, and pulled my jacket back over.

  “Are you carrying?” he asked.

  I felt the weight of the pistol I had in my jacket pocket. “I have my father’s Colt 1911.”

  “Good,” he said.

  We pulled from the side of the gravel road and proceeded. The gravel, mixed with snow, crunched and bounced in the cruiser’s wheel wells. Sommer killed the headlights.

  “Quarter mile up,” he said.

  Woods lined both sides of the road. The moon was our only source of light. Sommer slowed. I saw a gap in the woods up ahead to our right.

  “That’s it there,” he said.

  I looked down the driveway as we crept past. The place was lit up inside. A single car sat parked in front. It appeared to be a newer dark Chevy Malibu, our second rental car. Sommer turned sideways in the gravel road and killed the motor. We stepped out. Sommer pulled his service weapon from his hip holster, and I pulled my father’s Colt from my pocket. The other cruisers parked where instructed. We walked toward Wakkman’s car. He got out in a hurry and pointed his gun over the roof.

  Chapter 30 - Yury

  A handful of police cruisers sped past him, heading north.

  “That was fast,” Yury said with a smile.

  He continued south. The trip to his destination would take him past both scenes. He neared the first. The car that he’d had the guy set on fire could be seen still smoldering behind a fire truck, a couple of squad cars, and a fire marshal’s red pickup truck. He looked over but didn’t slow. A little over a mile down the street, he caught the red and blues of multiple squad cars lighting up Kane’s parents’ cabin—again he looked without slowing.

  The main highway that would take Yury south, before it turned west, lay just a mile up the road. He took his personal cell phone from the center console of the car and dialed.

  “Done?” the man asked.

  “Done. Moving on to the woman.”

  “The parents?”

  “I left them to be found. I dialed 9-1-1 from the house before I left. A handful of cops just passed me, heading in that direction.”

  “Anything left to tie you to the place?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Kane will be tied up with his parents, and trying to
figure out what exactly went down, for the rest of the night. It gives you plenty of time to take out the bitch. It will be halfway through the day before he realizes something isn’t right. She’ll be dead, and you’ll be back here by then.”

  “There are other people at the cabin where she is hiding out. I’m pretty sure it’s the rest of the cop’s family. What would you like done with them?”

  “No one lives.”

  “Got it.” Yury hung up.

  Chapter 31 - Kane

  “The front door is open,” Wakkman said.

  “Let’s go,” Sommer said. “If we alert them to our presence, this could turn into a shootout, and we don’t know who’s inside. Let’s get up there, quietly, and see what we have.”

  We fanned out and headed up the short driveway. Clements and Howard confirmed the car out front as empty. We approached the trailer’s front door.

  Sommer whispered over his shoulder, “I’ll take point and get the door. Get guns on the interior as soon as I do.”

  We confirmed.

  He held his service weapon in his right hand and stood off to one side of the front door, trying to get a look inside through the crack. “Empty,” he said. He pointed in and pushed the door.

  We climbed the single step and filed into the room, guns drawn. The small living room was empty, as was the kitchen to the right.

  “Hall,” Sommer whispered.

  We filed down, clearing the small bedroom and bathroom on the way. Sommer was still our point man, and he came to the last door at the back of the trailer. The light was on, the door half open. He pushed it open the rest of the way and pointed to the floor. I took the doorway as he entered the room. A body lay at my feet. Sommer swung right and quickly cleared the room. A man lay covered in blood in the bed, a pistol resting in his hand on his chest. Sommer disarmed him. The other deputies entered behind us.

  “What the hell?” Sommer said.

  The man on the floor had been shot in the back of the head. The wall to our left was covered in brain matter and blood.

  Sommer checked the man in the bed for a pulse. “This son of a bitch is still alive.” Sommer cuffed him and called on his radio for an ambulance.

  I took in the room and its occupants. It appeared that the man in the bed had shot the other while his back was turned.

  “Clements, Howard, you two go look around outside,” Sommer said.

  They left the room.

  “More of your guys, it looks like,” Wakkman said.

  “Same clothing. Why would the injured one shoot the unarmed one?” I asked. “And which of these two called 9-1-1?”

  “They could have had it out or something. One shot the other. This guy doesn’t appear as if he was armed, though,” Wakkman said. He got low to the body lying on the carpet. He rolled the man slightly to the side, looking for a weapon underneath him. “Nah, no gun.”

  I looked over the man on the bed. “I think this is probably the guy I shot in my parents’ driveway. The other guy must have brought him back here.”

  “What makes you think that this is the guy you shot?” Sommer asked.

  “The blood on his pants.” I pointed at the man’s legs. “There’s blood all the way down to his shoes. He damn well didn’t get shot lying in bed. I’d probably say we have a trail of blood from that car coming inside.”

  “Let’s go check it out,” Sommer said. “Wakkman, keep an eye on our bleeder here.”

  He nodded.

  Sommer and I had started for the door when Clements shouted for us outside. We rushed through the small living room and out the front door.

  In the driveway, I asked, “What’s going on?”

  Clements stood at the back of the Malibu, pointing at the trunk. “There’s someone in there.”

  I saw the quarter panel of the car flexing in and out. Someone was kicking from inside. “I’ll find the trunk release.”

  Sommer and Clements stood at the rear of the car with their guns drawn. I opened the driver’s door of the car, and the passenger seat caught my eye. It was soaked in blood. I looked toward the back of the car as I thumbed the release for the trunk lid. It flipped up, and Sommer holstered his weapon. Clements appeared to be pulling someone from inside.

  “Carl,” Sommer said, waving at me to come to the back.

  Within two steps, I saw my father’s white hair. Sommer was pulling a blindfold from my father’s eyes. I rushed to the back of the car. My father and stepmother, Sandy, were sitting on the trunk sill.

  Sandy slid off, stood, and leaned into me. She wore a thin flannel nightgown. I put my arms around her.

  “Does someone have a couple of blankets in their cruiser?” I asked.

  Clements nodded and went to get them.

  Sandy was handcuffed. She cried into my chest. I held her back and looked at her. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying—her thin face looked tired. Her brown, shoulder-length hair was a mess. My father stood. Blood had dried in the white of his hair and beard. He wore handcuffs as well.

  I grabbed him around his wide shoulders and brought him next to me and Sandy. He wore a black T-shirt and pajama pants.

  “Are you guys all right?” I asked.

  Sandy nodded. “I’m so happy to see you, honey.” She continued to cry.

  “Are you all right, Dad? What the hell happened?”

  “I thought you weren’t coming up here for a day or two yet.” he said.

  “I knew something was wrong.”

  “How?”

  “Long story. I’ll fill you in, in a bit. What happened with you two?”

  He shook his head. “Some assholes attacked Sandy and me in our sleep. They kept us locked up at our house for a bit and then moved us up the street.”

  Clements returned with two blankets. I draped them around my father’s and Sandy’s shoulders. “Thanks, Clements,” I said. “Do you have a key that will work with these cuffs?” I asked.

  “Let’s see.” He pulled his key ring from his hip and tried to work the cuffs’ lock. “Nah. They’re not the same as ours. I’ll go check the guys inside for a key,” he said.

  “No problem.”

  I looked at the cut in my father’s hairline. “What happened?”

  He pulled his head back. “It’s a scratch. I’ll be fine.”

  “It needs stitches, Dad,” I said.

  “Sandy will fix me up. First things first, we need to get these damn cuffs off.”

  Clements stuck his head out of the doorway. “Doesn’t look like either man has the keys on him. I’ll keep looking.”

  “I can do it back at my shop,” my father said.

  “We have an ambulance coming for the man inside. They should be able to take care of your head as well,” I said.

  “Guy inside?” my father asked.

  “Two Hispanics. One was shot. The other was dead when we arrived,” Sommer said.

  “Let me see them,” my father said. “I want to see if it’s the guys who had us.”

  “Hold on, Dad.” I looked at Sommer. “Can we sit my stepmom in your cruiser with the heat on?”

  “That’s fine. I’ll take her. Take your dad in for a look.”

  I walked my father inside, to the back bedroom.

  He stood in the doorway. “Yeah, that’s the two. There was one more with them at some point. A littler guy. I busted the guy’s teeth out. It wasn’t either of these two, though. That’s probably the guy who left a little bit ago.”

  “What do you mean left a little bit ago?”

  “Someone started a car and drove from here maybe twenty minutes to a half hour ago. That’s what I was saying—it was probably the little guy.”

  “It wasn’t,” I said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I killed the guy you speak of hours ago. Did you see the car?”

  “No, we were in the trunk.”

  “But you’re sure you heard a car leave?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Did you hear an
y talking or anything prior?”

  “No. Not really.” My father rubbed his eyes with his cuffed hands. “I’m pretty damn positive I heard another car though, Carl.”

  “Okay. Come on.”

  I told Sommer what my father had said. However, it would get us nowhere. We had no make, model, or clue as to who was driving it. I sat my father next to Sandy inside the cruiser.

  “Give me a couple minutes, guys, and we’ll get you home. I need to get back inside for a minute.”

  I headed back for the house, patting my pockets for my phone, to call my sister and Callie and tell them I’d found my father and Sandy. I pulled it out and dialed my sister’s prepaid number.

  “Hello?” Melissa answered.

  “Mel, I found them. They’re okay.”

  “Thank God. Where are you?”

  “We’ll be back at their cabin in an hour or so. I’ll call you back when we get there.”

  “We’ll just come now and wait for you guys.”

  “Just wait until I call, Mel. I just found them. They’re going to have to go through everything with the sheriffs still, and I don’t want you guys at their cabin until I’m there. Just give me an hour.”

  “Fine. Just call me as soon as you’re back and we can come.”

  “I will.” I hung up and walked inside.

  Chapter 32 - Kane

  We drove toward my father’s cabin. Wakkman followed in his cruiser behind us. Clements and Howard stayed back at the trailer to wait for the coroner to pick up the body of the man who’d been shot in the head. His ID said his name was Rodrigo Aguero—we ran the name, which appeared to be a fake. We found three phones on the living-room couch, none of which had batteries. They looked to be the same model as the one we’d picked up off of Jose Gomez, the shooter I’d killed on my father’s property. We could use the battery from his to search the new ones we’d found.

  We pulled the ID from the man with the stomach wound before the ambulance took him to the hospital in Antigo. That was the closest facility where he could be treated—a forty-five minute drive. His ID said his name was Ramon Bega. That also appeared to be an alias, and the identification a fake. I’d have to wait until morning at the earliest to try to question him—if he made it through surgery and the night.