Shallow Grave

by Brian Thiem

  Sinclair’s adversary obviously never had that training. He was looking down at his gun when Sinclair struck him in the temple with the back of his left fist. He followed it up by driving the palm of his right hand upward, striking the man under his nose. Blood spirted from his broken nose.

  The taste of your own blood in your mouth and the blurry vision that accompanies a shattered nose was enough for most men to give up. But not this one. He fumbled at his waist and pulled out the gun.

  Sinclair grabbed for it and got both hands on the barrel. He turned sideways to get out of the line of fire and simultaneously clamped one hand over the back of the man’s hand. He twisted and pushed the barrel of the gun away from him with his right hand while holding the man’s wrist with his left. He heard a squeal of pain as the man’s tendons and ligaments popped and his hand opened.

  With the pistol now in Sinclair’s possession, he stepped back and pointed it at the clean-cut man. He dropped to his knees, groaning and holding his injured hand. Blood and snot dripped from his face. Suddenly, his eyes darted behind Sinclair, and his lips turned upward into a twisted smile.

  Sinclair spun around to see the other man pulling a gun from his waistband. Sinclair swung his pistol toward him.

  Sinclair had no time to determine what kind of gun he held in his hands. It felt similar to a Glock. A light polymer frame, a heavy slide.

  He snapped it up to eye level and pulled the trigger. Two, three, four times. The man staggered back a step, the gun still in his hand. Sinclair fired twice more. The gun fell to the ground, and the man collapsed beside it.

  Sinclair stuffed his pistol into his waistband and ran to Sheila. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She looked up at him and nodded. As he was helping her to her feet, the clean-shaven man scrambled past him toward his fallen comrade, scooped up his gun, and leaped over the side of the pier.

  The cop in him wanted to give chase, but a fleeing suspect was not an imminent threat. Protecting Sheila had to be his first priority. She put her arm around his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her waist and walked down the pier toward the restaurant. He saw his attacker trying to run through waist-deep water and muck away from the pier.

  With his free hand, Sinclair pulled out his phone and called 9-1-1. It went directly to a recording. No doubt, many others were trying to call too.

  A sea of people flooded out of the outdoor area around the restaurant and up the driveway. Cars trying to get out of the parking spaces blew their horns to try to clear the throng of people rushing toward the main road. A few people stood around the bar, stunned or not believing the gunshots they heard were real. A cluster of people stood outside the building, half of them with phones to their ears.

  “Has anyone called nine-one-one?” Sinclair yelled.

  A man said, “Yeah,” and two women said they were on hold.

  Sinclair pushed on the door to the restaurant. Locked. He saw people inside, many huddled under tables. “Let’s get you out of here and somewhere safe,” he said to Sheila.

  Sheila held onto him tighter. He trailed the crowd of people heading toward the street. His car was a hundred yards away.

  In front of him, the crowd parted. Two men walking against the flow of people pushed through. Both muscular with dark hair and dressed in long pants and button-front shirts. The same Eastern European appearance. Sinclair looked over his shoulder toward the restaurant. Jogging his way was the clean-cut man from the pier, now soaking wet and covered in mud. He held a gun at his side.

  Chapter 47

  With the path to his car blocked by two men who were undoubtedly armed and the clean-cut man cutting off any escape back toward the restaurant, Sinclair pulled Sheila between two parked cars on their right.

  He crouched down, drew the gun, and looked it over. Springfield Model XD. The working mechanism was similar to a Glock, except with a grip safety. Springfield made excellent pistols—reliable and accurate enough out of the box. He popped out the magazine. Seven rounds of nine millimeter remaining. “Can you run?” he asked.

  Sheila nodded.

  A green chain link fence about five feet high separated the two parking lots. He boosted Sheila over it, then vaulted it himself. He landed in a thicket of small saplings, shrubs, weeds, and branches broken from the large trees above them.

  Sheila cried out in pain as a sharp stick jabbed into her calf. Sinclair pulled it out. A trickle of blood oozed out of the wound. “It’s not serious,” he said. “You gonna be okay?”

  She nodded. He grabbed her hand and pushed through the tangle to a strip of grass. Ahead was a parking lot filled with cars that ran between the Chart House restaurant fifty yards to their right and the main road a hundred yards to their left.

  He led Sheila down a row of cars to a walkway that led to the restaurant. Sticks snapped behind him. He turned to see the two men crashing out of the thicket.

  They saw him and Sheila at the same time. He dragged her behind a pickup truck as gunshots sounded and bullets pinged off the cars around him.

  Alone, he could evade his pursuers, staying low and running and crawling around the cars until he got to the far end of the parking lot. But not with Sheila.

  He leaned around the truck and fired two shots at the men as they approached the parking lot. They were too far away to hit, but his shots did what he intended. They took cover behind a car.

  The Chart House restaurant was less than a hundred yards away. Although his attackers didn’t seem to care about bystanders or witnesses who could identify them, they might hesitate rushing into a packed restaurant. Sinclair hated drawing gunmen toward a crowd of innocent people, but he was out of alternatives if he wanted to save Sheila.

  “When I tell you to go,” he said to Sheila, “I want you to run to the restaurant as fast as you can. Don’t look back. I’ll be right behind you.”

  She nodded, showering him with drops of perspiration as her head moved up and down. Sinclair gave their path one final scan. He saw movement—a man creeping toward them a few rows of cars to their left. The clean-cut man, holding his pistol at his side. He hadn’t yet spotted him and Sheila, but he was between them and the restaurant.

  The two other men left their position of cover and crept forward. Sinclair took aim and fired one shot. A half dozen bullets came their way in return. Sinclair peeked around the truck and saw one of the men dragging his partner, who was holding his leg, behind a car.

  The clean-cut man fired several rounds. Sinclair fired one in return, forcing him to dive for cover. Three rounds left. One man wounded, but still a threat. Two still armed and mobile.

  They couldn’t stay where they were. The gunmen would eventually converge on them and catch them in deadly cross fire. Thirty yards behind them, past ten parked cars, was a driveway that led from the main road to Hudson’s, the waterfront restaurant next to the Chart House. If they could make that driveway, the main road was a hundred yards away. Sinclair remembered a fire station across the road from the entrance to the Boathouse. That would be their destination. The 9-1-1 calls must have made it in by now. Police should be on their way. A fire engine should be staging, waiting for the police to secure the scene before they roared in with their paramedics.

  With luck, they could make it to the driveway before their attackers could react. Most trained police officers couldn’t hit a running target at that range with a pistol, so unless these men got off a lucky shot, they’d probably make it through. But once they saw Sinclair and Sheila running, they might give chase—the clean-cut man and the one who wasn’t nursing a bullet wound in the leg. They should have enough of a head start to make it to the main road. It wasn’t the best plan, but if they stayed where they were, they were dead.

  Sheila clung to his left arm. She had lost her sandals climbing over the fence, and her feet left bloody prints on the asphalt where they crouched. He told her the new plan. “Can you do it?”

  She nodded. Her eyes returned a steely determination.

/>   “Go,” he whispered.

  She jumped up and ran. One of the two men rose from behind their car and aimed his pistol. Sinclair fired a shot at him. He missed, but the man ducked back down. That was the time Sinclair needed as a head start. He had two rounds left.

  Sinclair sprinted across the parking lot and cut left onto the driveway. Sheila was going as fast as he could expect from a woman running in bare, bloodied feet. In a few seconds, he was alongside her. “Keep going,” he yelled.

  Over his shoulder, Sinclair saw the clean-cut man running forty yards behind them. The other man left his wounded partner, ran across the parking lot, and joined the chase, now neck and neck with the other man.

  Sheila was breathing hard. Sinclair looked over his shoulder. Both men were gaining on them. Sheila was running as fast as she could, but it wasn’t fast enough. In another few seconds, the men would be close enough to hit them.

  Several contingencies flashed through his mind. Sprinting ahead of Sheila to get to safety for himself was not one of them. In two more seconds, the men would be fifty feet from them. If they started shooting, there was a good chance they could hit him or Sheila.

  His only alternative was to have Sheila continue to run while he stopped and faced them. Fire one bullet at each one, ignoring any bullets coming his way. If he survived, he’d have to go hand to hand. He might get lucky and wound one of them with one of the shots. Maybe they’d lose their will to fight. Sinclair wouldn’t. He’d have to rush them even if they were still shooting. As the military had taught him, when no other options remain, assault directly into the enemy. Don’t quit even if you’re hit. You can survive a gunshot wound. Attack with everything you have, with a ferociousness—a viciousness—that will either destroy your enemy or cause them to flee.

  He glanced over his shoulder. They were still gaining. He and Sheila wouldn’t make it to the main road. They were almost within range. They’d begin shooting any second now.

  An SUV squealed around the corner from the main road and came barreling toward them. Forty feet away, it jerked to a stop. Both doors swung open. The driver jumped out with a gun in his hand. Dark crew cut, clean-shaven. A split second later, the passenger appeared.

  Behind Sinclair, the two men were still coming.

  Two rounds left.

  Sinclair stopped dead in his tracks. He began to raise his gun toward the SUV driver when he saw the passenger raise his gun.

  “Get down,” Uppy yelled from behind the passenger door.

  Sinclair tackled Sheila and pulled her to the ground. He shielded her body with his as a barrage of gunshots rang out in less than three seconds.

  “Get in,” Uppy yelled.

  Sinclair pulled Sheila to her feet and ran to the SUV, where Uppy was holding open the back door. The SUV jerked forward before their door was closed, executed a three-point turn, and took off. Marked police cars and unmarked cars with blue lights flashing sped down the road. The SUV driver said over his radio, “We have Sinclair and the girl. Engaged two suspects. Unknown if we hit them. They fled northbound into the Chart House parking lot.” He turned his head and said to Sinclair, “How many more suspects?”

  Sinclair told him about the wounded man in the parking lot and the one on the pier. The agent relayed that information over the radio.

  Sheila clung onto Sinclair as tightly as she could. Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. Finally, she buried her face into his neck and sobbed hysterically. Sinclair put his arms around her and held her.

  Uppy turned around to face them. “Are either of you hurt?”

  “Just scrapes and bruises for me,” Sinclair said. “Sheila cracked her head pretty good and has cuts and abrasions on her feet and legs.”

  “Do you need to go to the hospital, young lady?” Uppy asked.

  Sheila looked up and shook her head.

  “Where we headed?” Sinclair asked.

  “The bureau has a resident agency office just on the other side of the bridge. Ten minutes away.”

  “Maybe get a paramedic to take a look at her there,” Sinclair suggested. “Avoid a trip to the ER.”

  The agent driving nodded, said something into his radio mic, and whispered something to Uppy.

  “There’s a motel about a half mile from the RA,” Uppy said. “We’ll let you two get cleaned up and get you something to eat. Then we’ll sit down and talk.”

  “It better be a two-way conversation,” Sinclair said. “Because I’ve got a lot of questions for you. To start with, how’d you know where I was?”

  “Matt, my brother warrior, I’ve been telling you for years—I’m the FBI, and we know everything.” Uppy laughed and tossed something onto Sinclair’s lap. “You must’ve forgotten this when you left Oakland in such a hurry.”

  Sinclair ran his finger over the special deputy US marshal badge on the outside of the leather credential case and leaned back in the seat for the remainder of the ride.

  Chapter 48

  Sinclair and Uppy sat outside the Comfort Suites motel puffing on cigars. “Not bad,” Sinclair said, eyeing the Romeo y Julieta band around the brown tobacco leaf wrapper.

  “Yeah, when you’re the west coast super special agent who swings into town to save it from death and mayhem, people jump to fulfill your every desire.”

  “Right, buddy. One of your Feebee friends bought the cigars with your money, right?”

  Uppy smiled. Sinclair had no complaints about how the bureau was treating him. The rooms were nothing fancy, but the shower was amazing. Actually, any shower with soap and water would’ve been amazing. By the time he finished half of the pizza they bought for him, another agent had arrived with his rental car and brought his bag with its clean clothes to his room. The agent told him Sheila was in a room down the hall and someone was picking up fresh clothes and toiletries from her villa.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll come up with a way to expense them.” Uppy laughed.

  “I’m certainly not bitching about my rescue, but I’m curious how you found me.”

  “Archard and I figured you had a lead you were pursuing, so we put a loose surveillance on you.”

  “So that was you guys in the green Malibu that I lost on the freeway.”

  “What? No. We couldn’t get a team on you for a while. The only place we tailed you was to the airport. When you headed there, we knew you were on to something. I couldn’t convince the field office down here to surveil you right away, but we were able to get an emergency trace on your credit card account. I got on the first morning flight out of SFO. By the time I landed in Savannah, we knew you got a car at the airport, ate at a restaurant in Bluffton, and bought clothes at a store down by the beach. I didn’t believe for a second you were on vacation. We were finally able to convince the local resident office to saturate the area.”

  “But you had no idea why I was here.”

  “The big mystery to everyone in the task force was the identity of Phil’s informant. Archard never agreed with allowing Phil to keep her confidential. It’s against bureau policy, but Phil wouldn’t give in. The info she provided was amazing. With Phil gone, the task force needed to ID her and bring her in. I guessed you had a line on her.”

  “Why didn’t you level with me about Phil being on this task force?”

  “I didn’t even know it until a few days ago when they asked me to join them. Sure, I suspected something big was going on back when we worked the Thrill Kill Murders, but I wasn’t part of it.”

  “Until they needed someone I trusted to recruit me,” Sinclair said.

  “I didn’t like the way they did that any more than you did. I asked them to just let me talk to you. If I laid it out to you, you would’ve jumped at the chance to be part of it.”

  “How’d you know I was at Skull Creek?”

  “Agents were canvassing Coligny Plaza when they saw two marked sheriff’s cars racing to a condo complex down the street. One of them checks it out and finds out the deputies are taking a report a
bout two Russian goons beating the shit out of a man until he tells them his wife, sister-in-law, and a friend named Sheila Harris were partying at the Boathouse. And a guy fitting your description was inquiring about them earlier. By that time, I’m in the car with the agent who picked me up at the airport, so I tell him to go to Skull Creek. About five minutes before we arrive, the police radio goes crazy with multiple nine-one-one calls reporting a shootout. And I know that wherever Matt Sinclair goes, a shootout follows.”

  Sinclair took several gulps from his bottle of Gatorade. The temperature had dropped to the low eighties. Even with the humidity, it felt comfortable sitting in the breeze with a cold drink. “Any word on who the goons were?”

  “Two were originally from one of the ’stans—Kazakhstan, I think—but they had Russian passports and were in the US legally with work visas. The other two didn’t have papers on them. Right now, one’s in the morgue and a second’s under police guard at the hospital. The sheriff’s deputies that swarmed the area arrested the two we shot at. They’re on their way to our field office in Columbia. Agents there will try to interview them, but I wouldn’t expect them to talk.”

  “Any ties to Kozlov?”

  “Not so far, but give us time.”

  “Who else is your task force targeting?” Sinclair asked.

  “You mean our task force. You’re part of it now. There’s probably about fifty people with varying degrees of culpability on the suspect list.”

  “Is Preston Yates one of them?”

  Uppy puffed on his cigar a few times. “Matt, even though you haven’t signed the disclosure form, you can’t repeat what I’m about to tell you.”

  Sinclair made an X over his heart.

  “He’s number one on the corrupt politician list. The US attorney would like to have enough to charge him long before your mayoral election takes place in November.”

  “I think Sheila might’ve gotten what you need.” Sinclair forwarded Sheila’s text containing her cloud drive user name and password to Uppy and, over the next half hour, summarized what Sheila had told him. What he didn’t tell Uppy was that when he was eating pizza in his room and waiting for the FBI to conclude their strategy meeting, he’d downloaded everything from Sheila’s drive to his computer as well. He wasn’t about to be kept in the dark again. He also didn’t tell Uppy about Phil’s cloud drive because he wanted to go through everything Phil had before he released it to the FBI.