The Devil’s Share

by Wallace Stroby

  Chance came back in, low to the floor, holding the Glock.

  A round came through the side window, slammed into the wall beside the living room doorway. Glass rained down. Another followed it, tore off a piece of trim, the slug ricocheting into the living room. Then a flurry of shots, blowing out the rest of the side window, tearing through the curtain there, crisscrossing the room, punching into the walls. She could hear the clacking of a rifle bolt, a sound from the desert.

  Silence then. The smell of gunpowder came through the broken side window. More footsteps in the yard there. She pointed at the door, and he nodded. That was the way they’d be coming in. He crawled backward into the living room, the Glock in front of him, the butt braced on the floor.

  She slid along through broken glass, came up beside the table. Reaching up, she felt along the surface until her fingers touched loose shells. She drew down two, fed them into the receiver.

  The only sound was the crackling of flames in the fireplace. She pushed the rest of the shells into the pockets of her jeans, then crawled across the floor to the far end of the kitchen, staying low as she passed the side door. When she reached the refrigerator, she stood, using it for cover, her back to the counter. From here, she was out of sight of both windows. She could hear a hissing from inside the refrigerator, thought of the beer cans there.

  The laser blinked off. Seconds later, a bright flashlight beam came through a glass panel in the side door, lit up empty floor. She waved Chance back. He inched deeper into the doorway. The beam tracked across the kitchen but couldn’t reach him. It made another circuit of the floor, then across to the space where she’d been, below the window. Then it went out.

  She steadied the shotgun, guessing what they would do, thinking the kitchen was clear. Charge in force, with someone covering the front door as well, in case they tried to escape that way.

  She was breathing fast, shallow. The shotgun felt heavier. Her hands were wet. She had to tuck the butt in hard against her shoulder to keep the barrel still.

  The glass pane above the doorknob shattered, the butt of the flashlight coming through. Then a gloved hand pulled the last shards out of the frame and reached in, feeling around for the dead bolt. She held her breath.

  The fingers closed on the lock, and as it began to twist open, she leaned across the refrigerator, held the muzzle of the shotgun a few inches from the gloved hand, and squeezed the trigger.

  The muzzle flash lit the room. Wood splinters flew, blood spattered the linoleum. The man outside screamed, pulled his arm back through the window, and then Chance was firing from his prone position, three measured shots through the door.

  She pivoted back, breathed, knew she had to press the advantage. She pumped, then swung around again, fired, blew out what was left of the door glass. Two men in the side yard, black jumpsuits, boots, no masks. One was dragging the other away, the man on the ground making an animal noise, holding what was left of his right arm. The man carrying him was big and blond, a rifle slung at his side. His chest was bulky beneath the jumpsuit. Body armor.

  One-handed, he twisted the rifle on its sling, fired from the hip. The bullet went past her, and she ducked back. Three more rounds came through the door, hit the opposite wall. They weren’t aimed, just a delaying tactic to get clear.

  She pushed more shells into the shotgun, and when there was no fourth shot from outside, she wheeled around and aimed through one of the blown-out door panes. But the two were already on the other side of the pickup, dropping down behind it for cover. She fired over their heads to keep them down, heard buckshot shred the branches behind them.

  She pulled back behind the cover of the refrigerator, glass crunching under her boots. “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” Chance said. “How many?”

  “Don’t know. Two at least.”

  From up the gravel road, she heard the roar of an engine being revved. Through the front window, she saw headlights flash on, shine through the gate. The grind of metal on wood, the engine revving higher, and then a splintering crash as the vehicle came through. It swerved on the road, spraying gravel, then straightened. A big SUV with a heavy chrome pushbar.

  “More of them,” she said.

  “Hicks?”

  “I don’t know. We have to split up, lead them away from the house, or we’ll be trapped here. Where are the truck keys?”

  He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, sent them skittering across the floor. She bent, picked them up.

  The headlights were coming fast. She kicked at what was left of the door. It flew open just as the two men broke from behind the pickup, ran toward the SUV, were silhouetted in its headlights. The wounded man had his good arm around the big one’s neck, was being dragged along. She fired once at them, then at the SUV, knowing she couldn’t hit anything from here, but wanting them to see the muzzle flash, to slow them down.

  More shots to her right. Chance was firing through the front window at the SUV. It braked and swung to an angled stop across the road, blocking it, giving the running men cover. They hurried toward it, staying out of the headlights now. A rear door opened.

  She ran for the pickup, tried the latch. Unlocked. She slid the shotgun across the bench seat, got behind the wheel, fumbled with the keys and got the engine started. There was a popping sound from behind, an unsilenced weapon. A round punched into the pickup’s tailgate, then another.

  She hit the gas, pulled away, tires spinning, narrowly missed one of the trees. She headed up the road toward the rear of the property, and now the SUV was moving again, coming fast.

  With no headlights, she couldn’t tell where the driveway ended and the dirt began. She swung past the barn, then onto the border of the soy field, the path there big enough for a tractor. The pickup bumped and rattled, jolting her in her seat. In the darkness, she could only guess where the back road was that led into the trees.

  The SUV bore down on her, its big headlamps lighting the pickup’s interior as bright as day. More popping, and the window behind her head starred. Something hit the dashboard.

  She swerved right, then left, pulled the shotgun into her lap, balancing it on her knees, fed two more shells into the receiver. The SUV stayed on her. They couldn’t let her get away. The men she’d shot at had worn vests but no balaclavas. Which meant they didn’t care if anyone saw their faces, because they weren’t going to leave anyone alive.

  She spun the wheel, floored the gas, left the path and crashed onto the field, the pickup airborne for an instant, then coming down hard, jarring her. The truck mowed down the thigh-high plants, cutting a wide swath, the SUV closing in behind. Then there were no more plants, and the pickup plunged nose-first into an irrigation ditch, the impact slamming her into the steering wheel. She hit the gas, spun the wheel to the left, trying to get traction in the loose dirt. The truck lurched forward, rear tires spinning, and stalled out.

  The SUV barreled toward her. No time to restart the engine, rock the truck free. She pushed open the door, jumped down, pointed the shotgun at the SUV, aiming two feet over the onrushing headlights. She fired, pumped and fired again. The SUV’s left headlight went out, but it didn’t slow. She fired again, and then there was no time, no room. She threw herself to the side, hit the ground hard, and the SUV surged over the edge of the ditch, all four wheels leaving the ground, and plowed into the side of the pickup.

  The noise of it filled the night. She rolled away, lost the shotgun, was shrouded in dust. The SUV’s engine roared, grew louder, then cut out.

  The night grew quiet. She got to her knees, felt around until her fingers closed on the wooden stock of the shotgun. She coughed, rubbed a forearm across her eyes, trying to clear them. The SUV’s lone headlamp pointed off at an angle, lighting up the dust cloud from within.

  She spit out dirt, stood. The dust began to settle, and she saw the pickup was over on its right side. The SUV had T-boned the truck at a low angle, flipped it over, then come to rest that way, half in the ditch, the rear
tires higher than the front.

  She thumbed the last of the rounds into the shotgun, aimed it at the SUV’s driver’s side door, waiting for it to open. There was no movement inside. She could hear the engine ticking and cooling, the only sound now.

  Finger tight on the trigger, she moved closer. The driver’s side window was down, a man slumped over the wheel. She held the shotgun on him, came closer. Pellet holes riddled the windshield, and a fist-sized gap was blown out on the driver’s side. There was blood on the back of his seat.

  She used the shotgun muzzle to push him back off the steering wheel and the limp remains of the deflated air bag. The passenger seat was empty, the door there hanging open.

  The driver had close-cropped hair, a pink scar on the side of his neck. He wore a camo jumpsuit. His eyes were half open. He’d caught a load of buckshot in the throat.

  She let him slump forward again, circled the SUV, the shotgun up, butt tucked into her shoulder. It was a black Chevy Suburban, with Illinois plates. The rear passenger door was open as well. She pointed the shotgun inside. On the floor was the man she’d shot at the kitchen door. He was younger than the driver, his right arm a ruined mess. Dark blood had soaked through the carpet. With no tourniquet, he’d bled out. A silver cross and chain had slipped from the collar of his jumpsuit. They were dappled with blood.

  She backed away from the SUV. At least two more of them out here somewhere. A figure came out of the house, started across the field, limping. Chance.

  A groan behind her. She followed the noise, and there was the big blond one, facedown on the dirt path. A rifle stock stuck out from beneath him. There was blood in his hair. One of their wild shots must have grazed him as he ran for the Suburban. The collision had done the rest.

  She knelt, keeping the shotgun on him, tugged at the rifle. It snagged for a moment, then came free. He moaned when she pulled it out from under him. It was an HK, like the ones they’d used in Nevada. She backed away, ejected the magazine, tossed the rifle out into the darkness. She patted him down for a sidearm, found none, left him there.

  Back at the SUV, she got out her penlight, played the beam over the ground, saw the trail of crushed soy plants a few feet away. Blood in the dirt. Holding the penlight in a reverse grip in her left hand, she braced the shotgun barrel in the crook of her elbow.

  She followed the blood trail through the plants, found Sandoval kneeling in a ditch holding his left arm. She shone the light on him, saw the compound fracture there, bone showing through. The side of his jumpsuit was soaked with blood. Some of it would be the driver’s.

  He looked up at her, smiled and shook his head. “I should have known, right?”

  He dropped his right hand, came up with a dark automatic. She took a step forward, knocked it from his hand with the shotgun barrel. It landed in the dirt a few feet away. It was a SIG Sauer, no suppressor. He was the one who’d been shooting at the truck.

  “Where’s Hicks?” she said.

  He cupped his broken arm again, looked at the SIG, then back at her, his chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm. Cracked ribs, she guessed.

  She aimed the shotgun at him. “Is he here?”

  “I should have done you out in the desert.” He winced in pain. “Would have saved everybody a lot of trouble.”

  She heard dragging footsteps. Chance came up beside her, carrying the snub-nosed .38. His left jeans leg was dark with blood. Sandoval looked at him, spit on the ground at his feet.

  “Where’s Hicks?” she said again.

  “You’ll see him soon enough,” Sandoval said.

  “Who sent you out here?”

  “We know who sent him,” Chance said. “Why are we wasting time?”

  She ignored him. “You want a doctor,” she said, “you’re going to have to tell me some things.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Sandoval said. “You gonna call a doctor for me? Get him to come out here, fix me up?”

  “No, but I can take you someplace, a hospital. Drop you off outside. Then you’re on your own. We do it soon enough, they might be able to save that arm.”

  “A hospital.”

  “How’d you find out about this place? From Sladden?”

  Pain crossed his face again. “What do you think?” He looked at Chance. “Do what you’re going to do, maricón. One way or another.”

  “Talk to me, and we’ll get you to that hospital,” she said. “Where’s Hicks?”

  He looked up at her, said, “Que te den, puta.”

  “Right,” Chance said. “Semper fi, motherfucker.” He raised the .38 and shot him in the head.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  When Hicks came through the front door, there were three suitcases lined up in the foyer. He went through into the high-ceilinged living room. Katya came out of an adjoining hallway carrying a fourth suitcase, stopped when she saw him.

  “Where is he?” he said. She nodded at the stairs.

  He went up to the second floor, saw the light in Cota’s study at the end of the hall. He stopped in the doorway. Cota had a wall safe open, was taking out bound packs of bills, stacking them on the desktop. The painting that had covered the safe was leaning against the wall. He was panicking, as Hicks had known he would. But it didn’t matter now.

  “What the fuck, Emile?”

  Cota turned to look at him, then reached back into the safe.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Hicks said. He’d almost been too late.

  Cota put the last two packs on the desk. He looked pale, old.

  “I was going to call you, tell you. I wasn’t sure when you’d be back.”

  “You running out on me? I told you there’s nothing to worry about. It’s all been taken care of.”

  “You did. And I’m sure you’re right.” He limped toward the chair, sat down with a sigh. Hicks could see the sweat on his forehead. “But I was thinking, now might be an optimum time to take an overseas sabbatical. You should consider it as well.”

  “After all that happened? How do you think that’ll look?”

  Cota set his cane atop the desk. “Understood. But frankly, I’d feel more comfortable somewhere in Europe—Brussels, perhaps—until things calm down here, and our current trouble blows over.”

  “There’s no trouble, not anymore,” Hicks said. “They’re all gone, or will be soon.” Thinking about Sandoval and the others, on their way to Chance’s farm. Or there already and done. And now just one thing left.

  “You say. But can you really be sure?”

  “Don’t get squirrely on me, Emile. You’d be leaving me in a jam here. Or didn’t you think about that?”

  Cota didn’t answer, took a leather valise from the floor, opened it on the desktop, and began to put the money inside.

  “I half-expected as much,” Hicks said. “That’s why I’m here. Loose ends, right?”

  Cota looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “How much you have there?”

  “Sixty thousand. Traveling money, that’s all.”

  “What about the other safes in the house? There’s money in all of them, right? How much were you going to take with you?”

  Cota closed the valise, looked at him. “Randall, I’m grateful for all you’ve done on my behalf. I am. And I know it hasn’t always been easy. On occasion I’ve asked you to do things you didn’t want to.”

  “Yeah, you have.”

  “But I think we should go our separate ways for a little while, until things are calmer.”

  “They’re calm now.”

  “Then as a precautionary measure.”

  “You were going to leave without me?”

  “It’s better if we travel separately. I think we can both agree on that. You want this”—he slid the valise across the desktop—“take it, it’s yours.”

  Hicks laughed. “Sixty thousand?”

  “Take it.”

  “You owe me a lot more than that, Emile.”

  “And I will pay you every penny of it.”
>
  “That’s right,” Hicks said. “You will.”

  * * *

  Chance was silent in the car. She looked at his leg, said, “How bad is it?”

  “Just a graze. I can take care of it myself.”

  They were on Highway 50, headed west, Crissa driving. They’d collected most of the weapons, disassembled them, put the parts into a duffel bag they’d dumped into a lake a few miles from the farm. She’d kept the Glock.

  He’d taken what he could from the house, loaded a single suitcase. They’d left the four men where they lay, the blond one still alive out there in the field. There was nothing else to do.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I brought all this into your life.”

  “I made my choices. But this changes things. There’s prints all over that house. Maybe other evidence, too, things I haven’t even thought of.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Get Lynette. Figure out where to go next. Nothing back there was in my name, but the cops will talk to neighbors, people in town. They’ll try to piece the whole thing together. And they will eventually. I’ve got enough money stashed away. We’ll start again. Someplace else.”

  In her jeans pocket, the phone she’d taken from Sandoval started to buzz. She took it out. Hicks’s number, the same one he’d been using. Sloppy.

  “Is it him?” Chance said.

  She nodded. “He’s calling to see how it went.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  She shook her head, pressed the TALK button, held the phone to her ear.

  “Sandy?”

  “No,” she said.

  Silence, then Hicks said, “I should have known.”

  “He said the same thing.”

  More silence. “He was a good man. We went back a long way.”

  She said nothing.

  “So where does this leave us?” Hicks said.

  “Where do you think?”