by Edson, J. T.
‘Hey!’ Garrity barked, as turning a curve brought the Torino into view something over a quarter of a mile ahead. ‘Aren’t they slowing down?’
‘It looks that way, amigo,’ Klinger replied and, without the need to think of what he was doing, reached for the twelve gauge Remington Model 870P ‘Police Gun’ viii in the rack attached to the ceiling above the front seat of the Oldsmobile. ‘I wonder why?’
The question went unanswered!
Not only was the Torino slowing down, it swerved at an angle across the road and came to a halt facing towards the upwards incline. Instantly, its doors flew open and the two occupants sprang out. As they had stopped in an area of bright moonlight, they were exposed to the gaze of the patrolmen with sufficient clarity for their appearances to be studied and remembered.
Each ‘suspect’ was tall, lean and would have been termed ‘Caucasian’ in a description put out by Central Control. ix Respectively a blond and dark brunette, their hair was shoulder long and each had a beard sufficiently bushy to conceal the majority of his features. They had on loose fitting, collarless, multi-hued shirts which hung outside ragged, faded and much patched Levi’s trousers, with tennis sneakers on their feet. Two crossed bandoleers of ammunition were suspended over the shoulders of the blond and he was carrying the automatic carbine. Although the brunette emerged from behind the steering wheel of the Torino with empty hands, he snatched a Colt Government Model of 1911 .45 automatic pistol from the belt—to which was attached a pouch with four spare magazines—around his waist as soon as he was clear of the vehicle.
What happened next established beyond any doubt that the fugitives had not stopped with the intention of surrendering peaceably!
Not that either of the patrolmen had believed such would prove the case!
Snapping the butt of the Armalite to his right shoulder, with the speed of long practice, the blond took rapid aim and opened fire. Almost at the same moment, while running around the front of the Torino, the brunette pointed the automatic pistol behind him at shoulder level and squeezed off three shots. His efforts were, of necessity, less effective than those of his companion.
While the heavier rounds from the Colt went harmlessly into the air, four of the .223 caliber bullets from the carbine struck the windshield of the Oldsmobile. The glass crumpled and turned opaque as, fortunately passing between the occupants, the lead burst through at high velocity. Instantly, Garrity’s instincts took over and guided his actions. It said much for his ability as a driver and the high standard of training provided by the Gusher City Police Department’s Bureau of Motor Vehicles that he was not only able to keep the car under control with his vision so impaired, but brought it safely to a stop.
‘Are you all right, Joe?’ Klinger asked, having been protected against the effects of the sudden deceleration by his seat belt—the use of which was mandatory for occupants of official vehicles in Rockabye County—the timbre of solicitude in his voice a marked contrast to his earlier tone.
‘Sure am,’ the big black patrolman replied, also having been protected by his seat belt. ‘How about you?’
‘They missed me clean,’ Klinger claimed, stabbing a finger at the quick-release catch to free himself from the seat belt. ‘Watch how you get out, though. It might be second time lucky!’
‘You do the same, amigo!’ Garrity advised, also liberating himself. ‘God damn it, there must be an easier way of making a living!’
‘You find the sucker,’ Klinger growled, unfastening his door. ‘Then let me know and I’ll take it!’
Swiftly as the two patrolmen quit the vehicle, the fugitives had moved even faster. Neither was anywhere to be seen by the time Garrity and Klinger were standing on the road. Nor, with the various sounds originating from their rear, could they hear anything to suggest in which direction the pair of ‘suspects’ had departed.
In spite of the squealing of brakes being applied which caused tires to protest against the sudden restriction upon their movements, the other r.p.’s and the car carrying the detectives having been following at a distance which offered a sensible margin of safety, were all able to halt without any collisions. Leaving their respective vehicles, armed with a variety of weapons, the six peace officers advanced cautiously towards R.P. 313. Only one of the arrivals in the unmarked vehicles was a man, but the uniformed officers were not in the least perturbed by discovering this to be the case.
Big, buxom, black-haired, Woman Detective Rachel Winters looked like a matronly Jewish housewife of moderate means and was a very competent peace officer. Having handed her partner, Detective David Bulpin, the short High Standard Model 10 Series A Police Shotgun she had brought from their car, she drew the snub-nosed Colt Diamondback revolver from her bulky Pete Ludwig shoulder bag. It was no mere affectation. If the need arose, qualifying as ‘Marksman’, she could hold up her end in a gunfight.
‘Where’d they go, gents?’ Bulpin asked, his appointment as detective giving him a rank equivalent to a sergeant of the Patrol Bureau and, in the absence of anybody with a greater seniority, putting him in command of the assembled peace officers.
‘I don’t know,’ Garrity replied, after his partner had glanced in his direction. ‘The bastard with the Armalite Car bust the windshield in our faces and we couldn’t see which way they lit out.’
‘They’ve headed upwards, not down, I’d say,’ Klinger supplemented, riding shotgun having allowed him to maintain a better surveillance of the fugitives as he had not needed to devote any of his attention to driving. ‘At least, that’s the way the son-of-a-bitch who was at the wheel took off when they left their heap.’
‘Looks like it falls off pretty near straight down on the other side, anyways,’ commented one of the patrolmen from the black and white ‘back up’ cars. ‘But why the hell did they stop here?’
‘Out of gas, maybe?’ Bulpin guessed, correctly as was established by a subsequent examination of the Torino. Turning his gaze in the direction suggested by Klinger, he listened for a moment to the rattle of loose stones and dirt being dislodged by the fugitives as they were making their ascent and went on, ‘They’re going up, that’s for sure.’
‘You know something, gents?’ Rachel inquired, her voice a deep contralto and somewhat husky. ‘Those momzers aren’t trying to make it easy for us!’
‘That’s a big affirmatory they aren’t,’ Bulpin seconded, glancing at the slope again. ‘Bring all the cars up, Rachel, gents. Keep the headlights on full and we’ll see happen we can pick them out that way.’
The order was carried out quickly, but with little positive effect!
In fact, the response to the suggestion was less than satisfactory!
Even with the vehicles halted so they were facing straight across the width of the road, their combined headlights could only illuminate the bottom dozen or so feet of the hillside. Nor was the attempt made by Rachel to improve the situation any more productive. Returning her revolver to its holster in the shoulder bag, she collected the spotlight carried in the unmarked car. When she switched it on and, keeping herself concealed as far as possible behind the vehicle, started to sweep its powerful beam methodically back and forth, the Armalite spluttered. A startled and profane exclamation burst from her as the spotlight, its glass and bulb disintegrated by a bullet, was sent flying from her grasp.
Four shotguns of various kinds and three revolvers barked, being aimed at the flashes from the automatic weapon of the blond haired fugitive. However, there was no indication that any of the charges set loose had achieved their intended purpose.
‘Did he get you, Rachel?’ Bulpin asked worriedly, lowering the High Standard.
‘Knocked the light out of my hand is all,’ the woman detective replied, shaking and working her stinging fingers. ‘Did you get him?’
‘I wouldn’t want to chance saying “yes” to that,’ Bulpin assessed. ‘If we hit him, he surely kept quiet about it unless we killed him outright.’
‘Sounds like we didn’t g
et him, they’re moving again,’ Garrity commented, scanning the slope as the noise of the ascent through the darkness was resumed. ‘But where do those yoyos think they’re headed?’
‘Yeah,’ Klinger seconded. ‘There’s nothing but open range once they get over the ridge unless they figure to cut back to the road here further along.’
‘There is though, by god!’ Bulpin ejaculated, also looking upwards. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, there’s a turn off around the next bend and it leads up to one of those high-rent Hillside Estates. Some of the houses must be right above us!’
‘Hell’s fires, yes!’ Klinger spat out. ‘If they should get, into one of them, those god-damned yoyos could make a stand, or maybe take hostages.’
‘Then we’d better get up that turn off muy pronto!” Rachel declared, glancing at the car in which she and her partner had arrived. ‘Maybe we can reach the houses before they can get to one.’
‘There’s not a god-damned chance of that,’ Bulpin replied savagely. ‘I’ve worked this area. The turn off winds back and forth for half a mile or more before it gets up to that level and it’s not a road you can run over at speed.’
‘Like I said,’ Rachel breathed. ‘Those momzers aren’t trying to make things any too easy for us!’
‘And, like I said, you’ve got a big affirmatory on that!’ the male detective answered. Then, after telling the assembled peace officers to “get set”, he cupped his hands around his mouth and raised his voice to a stentorian bellow, ‘Hey, you two up there. Can you hear me?’
‘We hear you, you “mother-something” Fascist pig!’ x a voice with a close to whining Mid-West accent screamed from the blackness of the slope. ‘What do you want?’
‘Give it up and come back down here!’ Bulpin advised. ‘You can’t get away on foot!’
This time, the answer was not verbal!
Red flashes burst in rapid succession from the gloom some distance above where the earlier shots had been fired!
Already alert to the possibility of such hostile action, the peace officers had taken the precaution of keeping the vehicles between themselves and the incline. Hearing the response yelled to Bulpin’s suggestion of surrender, all but one had begun to crouch down by the time the first bullet struck and ricocheted from the concrete surface.
The exception, Klinger, had remained partially erect in the hope of employing his Remington. Before he could do so, a cry of pain burst from him. Spinning around, the automatic shotgun falling from his hands as they clutched at his chest, he sprawled limply face down on the road. Echoing the involuntary exclamation which burst from Garrity, Bulpin halted his descent to safety. Reversing his direction just a trifle more swiftly than the remaining pair of patrolmen who were armed in a similar fashion, he thrust the assault weapon he was holding into a firing position. A beam stabbed from the removable flashlight on top of the purpose built shotgun, but he made no attempt to pinpoint the target with its illumination. Instead, he expended four of the two and three-quarter inch long shells from the tubular magazine in spraying their respective loads of nine .32 caliber buckshot balls towards the general area from which the multiple flashes of the carbine had originated. Although the uniformed officers duplicated his actions, apart from a cessation of firing from up the slope, there was nothing to suggest their combined efforts had taken effect.
‘Hold it right there, Joe!’ Bulpin barked, as Garrity spat out a profanity and began to rise. ‘That isn’t the way and you know it!’
For a moment, it seemed the big black patrolman would ignore the command!
Then the discipline ingrained by his service with the United States Marines and the G.C.P.D., aided by his common sense, caused Garrity to obey. He realized that, personal feelings notwithstanding, to dash off recklessly in search of revenge for his stricken partner would do nothing to improve the situation. In fact, by rushing into the darkness of the slope, he would seriously restrict the ability of the other peace officers to take action. They would be afraid of inadvertently hitting him if they opened fire on the fugitives.
‘Get on the horn and have an ambulance sent here muy pronto!’ Bulpin ordered, directing the words at a patrolman who was armed with a revolver. ‘Tell Cen-Con we need more help out here, too!’
‘Yo!’ the uniformed officer replied, making the traditional assent to a command of the United States Cavalry and holstering his weapon.
‘I’ll see to your partner, Joe,’ Rachel offered. ‘Check whether his riot gun is still in working order, you might need it.’
‘Somebody’s already coming,’ remarked one of the uniformed officers, a moment later, nodding towards the sound of a siren rapidly drawing nearer from the direction in which the pursuit had been heading. ‘Likely one of the sher—!’
‘There they are!’ yelled another of the patrolmen, gesturing upwards with his Colt Python revolver.
Following the direction indicated, the remaining peace officers saw something which all regarded with considerable misgivings!
Hitherto unnoticed by any of the party on the road, as they were concentrating upon scanning the slope, stood one of the houses to which Bulpin had referred. Its front had been in darkness. Like all the properties on the Hillside Estates developments, providing one had no objections to there being a steep slope of more than a hundred yards in depth separating the front garden by no more than a narrow dirt road, it was a beautiful place. Although it had been unlit previously, apparently the occupants had heard the shooting. Showing what the watching peace officers considered to be a remarkable lack of good sense, somebody inside had switched on the porch light.
The two fugitives showed briefly in the illuminated area!
Before any of the peace officers could even consider whether it would be safe to open fire, much less make any attempt to do so, the longhaired pair had crossed the porch and disappeared from view. There was a crash of breaking glass as one of them, probably the blond using the butt of his carbine, smashed either a window or a panel in the front door. A moment later, a feminine scream of fright rang out.
‘And that is all we god-damned need!’ Bulpin declared bitterly, straightening up. ‘They’ve got themselves some hostages. Which, happen they figure on staying put, we’ll have hell’s own time and trouble smoking them out!’
Chapter Two – Institute “Operation Gob-Stopper”
‘Well now, Rachel, gentlemen,’ Jack Tragg said pensively, gazing up the slope. ‘I’d say we’ve got ourselves something of a problem. We’ve got to find ourselves some way of smoking those yoyos out of there and without putting whoever else’s inside at risk.’
Although all the officers who were present so far belonged to the Gusher City Police Department, the Sheriff of Rockabye County had automatically assumed control over the operation when he arrived on the scene. Not only was he senior in rank to all of them, but technically they were now well beyond the limits of the city and, therefore, within the area of his jurisdiction.
‘It’s not going to be easy, sir,’ Detective David Bulpin claimed, despite knowing that the same conclusion would already have occurred to the newcomer. But he had acquired a piece of information which he considered gave added confirmation to his summation. ‘Particularly if those yoyos are who I reckon they might be.’
‘Who’s that, Dave?’ Jack inquired, without turning his attention from the building which—the porch light having been switched off just prior to his arrival—was once again in darkness.
‘Going by that Armalite Commando carbine and the descriptions of them that Patrolman Garrity’s given to me, the blond’s Richard Cleverly and the brunette’s Edward Gierek,’ Bulpin supplied, having elicited the details partly to distract the thoughts of the big black ‘harness bull’ from his seriously wounded partner who was being given first aid and what comfort was possible by Woman Detective Rachel Winters prior to the arrival of more qualified medical aid. ‘They’re a couple of radical activists who’re wanted out of Houston on 1151 and 1256 raps.’
/> ‘Just a couple of good old Communist boys fighting against the evils of the Capitalist Establishment, huh?’ Jack drawled sardonically.
‘Why sure,’ the detective agreed. ‘Except, although it’s all right for them to label us “Fascists”, we’re doing a McCarthy witch hunt should we say they4re Commies. Only I thought their kind were only supposed to rob the rich, like good old Robin Hood, and the Moreno family at the delicatessen were anything but rich.’
‘I’ve never known any of those stinking crud who wouldn’t rob a blind beggar should they need money,’ the Sheriff declared and, crossing to his Buick, lifted out the handset of the radio. ‘S.O. One to Cen-Con!’
‘Cen-Con by!’ replied the dispatcher at Central Control.
‘Are any S.O. units approaching my ten-twenty?’
‘S.O. Six and S.O. Nine on their way!’
‘Patch me through to them,’ Jack ordered, having already notified the dispatcher that he was at the scene. With contact made, he continued, ‘S.O. One to S.O. Six and S.O. Nine. Institute “Operation Gob-Stopper”. Ten Four?’
‘Roger, S.O. One,’ replied the Deputy Sheriff riding shotgun in sheriff’s office car Six. ‘You’ve got “Gob-Stopper”. Over and out.’
Although they were speeding along Route 228 in response to the instructions given by Central Control, knowing what was required to institute ‘Operation Gob-Stopper’, the drivers of the two vehicles slowed down. Then, while S.O. Nine halted and reversed until across the road at an angle with its hood pointed towards Gusher City, S.O. Six advanced a short distance to take up a similar position facing in the way they had been travelling. By doing so, they formed a narrow channel through which everybody else coming along the road would be compelled to negotiate slowly unless willing to try smashing through. To cope with the latter contingency, the deputies brought riot guns from their vehicles. Then, leaving the red lights flashing, they stood alongside S.O. Nine to check the identity of anybody travelling southwards along the road and warn them of the danger of going further.