Recon

by David McCaleb

  Back up the hill, Carter held the weapon out to her. “Nice action.”

  She snatched it from his grasp.

  He turned toward the house and stepped away. Glancing back, he said, “You have a way of contacting her?”

  Skinny remained a statue. Stacy stepped next to the pile of shells. “No. Off the grid for two weeks.”

  Carter stopped. “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Take a look at CNN. There’s been a shooting on the top of some mountain in Colorado. I can’t hail either one. They’ve gone dark.” He kicked a mushroom, and it puffed gray spore atop his black Gucci leather lace-ups.

  She raised the weapon toward the valley and leaned into it. “It’s a big state. No reason to suspect they were involved.”

  Carter glanced at Grind, then jerked his head toward the house.

  As they walked across the stone patio, Stacy shouted, “Pull!” Two shots boomed. Over his shoulder, Carter glimpsed a single black-and-orange disc sinking like a setting sun beyond the lawn’s horizon.

  Chapter 14

  Recoil

  Lam placed a metal chair in front of the black steel door and lowered himself into it. He’d threaded a crowbar through the handle, preventing it from opening, then secured that tightly with a C-clamp. If any more hoodlums showed up, hopefully they wouldn’t notice the empty padlock hinge on the exterior and realize he was inside.

  Now, his outstretched neck ached as he rested his forehead upon the metal slab, eye to an old key slot, gazing toward the cottage. He’d turned off all the lights of the stone room so his vision could adjust to the dark, allowing him to see, even if only faintly by starlight, when help arrived. The Gilkes generator hummed behind him, though it couldn’t drown out a gust of wind as it whipped across the roof, blowing dust beneath the eaves. It had picked up in the last few hours, though the sky was still clear. The shadowed forms of trees near the cottage bent in unison, the roof howled, and a puff of dusty air shot through the keyhole, stinging his eye.

  When would someone come for him? It had gotten dark three hours ago. Sure, he’d gotten home late before, especially when working up here, but his wife should’ve expected him already. Maybe she’d put his daughter, Jessica, to bed and they’d both fallen asleep. Damn. If so, she wouldn’t know he was missing till morning. Hell, it might be noon tomorrow by the time someone arrived.

  A dark form marched into view, planting himself in front of the porch. The colors of his clothes were muddled, like camouflage. Hair fell to his shoulders in a knotted mop. Probably dreadlocks. He towed a kid in one hand, about the same height as Jessica, a ponytail drooping. She followed at the distance of her outstretched arm, as if he was pulling her across the parking lot on skis. He wrapped an arm around her waist and knelt behind her, facing the cottage, back to Lam. Was this the man and little girl the Jap gangster had asked about? Was he a thug too?

  The guy hollered, but the rustle of aspens and the scream of the wind drowned out his words. He must think Lam was still in the cottage. A minute later the dark figure yelled again, then lifted a—

  Shit! He held a pistol to the kid’s head. Lam edged forward and felt for the C-clamp. Quickly, he loosened its grip. This guy had to be looking for him, because he’d killed that Jap. The gunman must be threatening to kill this kid if he didn’t—

  Another shadow stepped from the dark porch, outline like a walking bush with leaves jutting from his sides and head. But…Lam had never seen anyone go into the house. The bushman held hands up in surrender, stepping slowly to the edge of the parking lot. The gunman hollered again, shaking the kid.

  Wind was gusting now, stirring starlit powder. A glowing dust devil churned through the parking lot behind the gunman, tugging on his dreadlocks, like a demon pulling him down to hell. That’s where Lam would plant the crowbar. If he could sneak up from behind, with a good swing the bar’s sharp foot could penetrate a skull. He’d be dead before he could pull the trigger. Lam slid the steel tool free, feeling in the darkness to ensure its proper orientation and a solid grip upon its shank. He paused for another gust to rattle the roof, drowning any sounds of his movement, then yanked open the door. This asshole was about to be reunited with his Jap gangster friend.

  * * * *

  Red held his arms up and stepped down the porch steps toward the parking lot. His fingers choked his pistol’s grip, weapon aimed toward the night sky. His chest was tight, as if filled with ice water. In the middle of the barren lot, a gunman knelt behind Penny, holding her tightly in front of him.

  Her arms reached out, tear-streaked face pleading. “Daddy!” she screeched.

  The wind muffled the gunman’s voice, but he sounded as if he was from the Caribbean. Jamaican, maybe. “Weapon. On the ground!”

  Red had no clear shot at the man. He stood thirty feet away, and even his head ducked behind hers. Loosening the grip on his pistol sickened his gut more than running from the firefight at the peak. At least then, he’d been protecting Penny. But now, tossing it onto packed gravel, he was giving up hope.

  A total loser. A Jamaican gunman, probably strung out on amphetamines, held his daughter’s life by the tendon of his index finger.

  Red’s pistol clattered as it fell. “Let her go. It’s me you want.”

  A shrieked laugh, and the man stood, still holding Penny against his chest. How’d he fit behind his little girl? The Jamaican was huge. Penny’s feet barely hung to his belt. His triangular torso widened to broad shoulders. His neck was thicker than her head, dark cords of hair blowing in the wind. “You? I don’t want you. Who you think you are, little man? Where’s the girl?”

  Red scowled. “You’re holding her.”

  An angry growl. The Jamaican grabbed Penny’s foot and, folding her in two, pulled it close to her face. The muzzle pressed against her shoe. “Don’t waste my time, little man, or I blow off your daughter’s foot, right here where she can see!”

  The Jamaican whispered in Penny’s ear, and she shrieked. The wind blew hard, frothing the lake’s surface. How was this happening? Nothing was within Red’s control. He had no angle to play, completely in the grasp of a hired man. His calf started to jitter. “Please, let her go. I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

  Another screeched laugh came from the Jamaican, as if from an owl. “Yes, you will. Tell me where the girl is, and I won’t hurt your daughter. You die either way, but she might live. If you waste my time, I blow off pieces until you tell me what I ask.” He straightened even more, stretching himself higher. “Now where is the girl? Your wife.”

  Lori? What the hell did they want with her? “I don’t know where she is. She ran when—”

  “Wrong answer!” The Jamaican cocked the pistol. In a panic, Red waved his arms and shouted, “Wait! I do know. We had a rendezvous set up.” Think fast. Make it up. Where the hell could it be? He pointed toward Manitou Springs. “If we were separated, we’re supposed to meet in front of the Creamery in Old Colorado City.”

  “You think I’m an idiot? We’ve got eyes all along that route. No one has come off the mountain we didn’t see.”

  Shit. He had no idea where Lori was. And even if he tried to answer, this man was going to blow off his daughter’s foot. He’d move to her knees, arms... He’d never seen it done, but had witnessed the remains of ISIS terrorists left behind by a team of Russian operators.

  A spark of hope glimmered as a dark shape stepped from the shadowed doorframe of the stone building across the parking lot. Red kept his eyes on the Jamaican, not giving the gunman a hint that someone was marching up from behind. Was it a policeman? Park ranger? Whoever it was, if he tried to shoot the Jamaican, Penny could be killed in the process.

  “Wait!” Red shouted. “If you’ve got eyes on the way down to Manitou, she wouldn’t have tried to move that direction. She’s still on the mountain. I can help you find her.”<
br />
  The dark figure stepped more quickly now, striding in confidence. A crooked bar swung from an arm like a hay baler’s hook. Jeep stretched in light-colored block letters across his shirt’s dark background. This guy must be the owner of that pickup.

  The Jamaican spat onto the ground. “You don’t know where she is, do you?” His lip drew into a sneer. “That means you’re just dead weight. The both of you.”

  A few more steps and Jeep Man would be behind the Jamaican.

  Red held up his hands. “I know her. Where she’ll go. You’ll find her faster with me. But, if you hurt—”

  Jeep raised the weapon, as if winding up for a baseball swing. The Jamaican smiled and spun, shooting toward the man’s chest. Red ducked and rolled toward the gunman, springing to his feet under his arm. A yank and twist on his wrist and the pistol dropped free, though the thick radius bone didn’t snap as he’d hoped. The Jamaican screamed and threw Penny aside, next to Jeep Man’s body.

  Red pummeled the Jamaican’s kidneys with quick blows, but his core was hard as plywood. The Jamaican took a step back to get a clear swing, but Red closed again, staying tight and working his stomach. He couldn’t let the gunman back away or he’d be vulnerable. With a bullet in his ass, he’d have no kick to speak of. But one punt from this guy and Red would land in the trees.

  Another step back. Red ducked and planted an uppercut into the man’s groin. It smacked plastic. Damn it! He was wearing a cup. Before he could step back again, Red planted two more strong shots on the same target. The last sounded a snap, and his punch sank in. Got you!

  A knee caught Red in the chest and lifted him from the ground, lobbing him like a tennis ball tossed for a serve, shaking twigs and leaves from his sweater. Before he landed, a fist the size of a brick caught him aside the head and sprawled him upon gravel. He rolled to one side, dodging a foot stomp, then hopped to his feet again.

  Sure enough, the Jamaican threw a side kick directly at Red’s bum leg. A seasoned fighter, he’d seen his weakness. Red ducked, and the blow glanced off his back. Another shot to the Jamaican’s groin, and another knee slammed into Red’s belly, emptying his lungs of air and sending him skyward. This time, the Jamaican chose an uppercut as Red fell back to earth. He shielded his face with his arms, and the blow crashed into his triceps. Landing, his head smacked the clay surface. He opened blurry eyes just as the gunman raised his boot. This strike would end him.

  Bang! A flash came from the direction of where Jeep lay. The Jamaican gripped his stomach, dropped to knees, then fell back. Red rolled to his feet and patted the man down, pulling a slender black throwing knife from a sheath and a .357 Magnum revolver from a calf holster. No way this guy was getting a second chance. The big man’s breathing was fast and shallow. Good riddance.

  Red scooped up his own pistol, then limped to Jeep and dropped to a knee. He pressed an ear to his chest. The guy was still breathing. Penny sat on the ground nearby, sobbing. “You’ll be OK, sweetheart. But we’ve got to help this guy now. Go in the house. Find a bed and bring me the sheets.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Now!” he yelled.

  She rose to wobbly legs and ran, stumbling up the porch steps.

  Jeep moaned, trying to peer down past his cheeks, studying the scarlet stain on his shirt. The injured man would’ve been hard pressed to make that shot considering his wound. Maybe it had come from the trees. If the Det had located them and had a sniper out there, he wouldn’t give away his position in case another enemy operator was nearby. The Jamaican’s Colt 1911 lay beside Jeep’s head. No. This guy must’ve squeezed off a round, somehow.

  He tore off the man’s bloody shirt and rolled him to his side. A white twig of bone, like a broken pencil, lay splintered inside the exit wound. The shot had been high and passed clear through. Bleeding was steady, but not in gushes.

  “What’s your name, buddy?” Red muttered.

  Jeep’s voice was a hoarse whisper. Red lowered an ear to listen. “Lam.”

  Red gritted through his own pain, trying to keep his tone upbeat. “Lam, my daughter and I owe you our lives. The good news is, you’re gonna live. The bad news is, once shock wears off, you’re gonna wish you hadn’t.”

  No sooner had Penny run inside than she was back out the door trailing white fabric. “It’s just a tablecloth,” she blubbered.

  Red forced a smile. “You did good, sweetheart. Sit down now. You’ll feel better in a bit.”

  Within a minute, he’d torn the covering into strips, packed the wound, twisted a length of the cloth into a doughnut, placed it over the hole in the man’s flesh, and tied it securely. Another strip went around the man’s neck as a sling. “Just lie on your side for now.”

  He turned and pulled Penny into his arms, smoothing her hair back. “Thank God you’re OK. I am so sorry. I thought for certain no one would find you all the way up there in that thick grass.”

  For a minute, she was stiff, frozen. Then, she opened her mouth, reached in, and pulled out a tooth. She cupped it in a quivering palm. “Is it one of my permanent ones? I bit his finger when he shot that man with the stick. I thought…I thought…”

  A dribble of blood trickled down her forehead. Red wiped it off with a corner of clean tablecloth.

  “I thought…I was shot.” She blinked.

  Taking her hands in his, he stretched her arms wide, looking her over. “No. You’re not shot. Just the big man.” He blotted away her tears, then hugged her again. “You don’t seem hurt. You thought he shot you?”

  She broke down now, sobbing. “Is he…is he going to die?”

  “Lam? No, he’ll be OK.”

  More sobs. She pointed to the fading operator. “N-no, the big man.”

  Red glanced at the Jamaican, whose belly quivered as it rose and fell. “I sure hope so.”

  More sobs. “B-but he was going to kill you.”

  She was in shock and needed to lie down. Her face looked pale enough that she might pass out. He gave her another hug. “Listen, you did good. You got the tablecloth. Rest a minute. Lam saved our lives, shooting that big bad guy. You don’t need to feel sorry for him.”

  She shook her head. “But I shot him!”

  What the hell? Red stared at his daughter. A greenish light glinted dimly in the corner of her eye.

  She held up quivering arms. “The gun was h-heavy, so I used b-both hands. Like with Jimmy’s BB pistol.” She touched the spot where Red had wiped away the blood. “It hit me here, in the head. I saw stars. I thought I shot myself.” She stared at the fallen mass of flesh in the parking lot.

  Damn. Penny was the shooter. The recoil smacked the slide into her forehead, carving a twin-forked gouge atop a growing purple goose egg.

  He shook his head. He’d have to deal with all this after they were out of the open. Now, they needed to get back undercover. “You did the right thing. Now run inside, sweetheart. Look for any medicine you can find. Rubbing alcohol, anything.”

  After she trotted off again, Red turned to the Jamaican. Who was after them? And why? The shooting at the Peak was the third attempt on Lori’s life. And now this prick had threatened his daughter. Enough! He held the man’s own black blade to his throat, pressing till it began to pierce skin. “Who you working for, asshole?”

  Heavy eyelids slid open. Bloodshot orbs searched the sky. “Traitorous shit.”

  Red bent one of the man’s thick fingers back till bone snapped. “Wrong answer. Who do you work for?”

  His face contorted, and he coughed. “Uncle Sam, dickhead.”

  “Wrong again.” He twisted more and another splintered.

  This time, the Jamaican didn’t seem to notice. His eyes met Red’s, but they didn’t focus. “What’s happening?”

  “You’re bleeding out.”

  His mouth opened in a downturned arc, as if in dread. Everyone feared de
ath. No one went quietly. One thick fist grabbed at Red’s collar. “Don’t let me die.” No. Red needed information first.

  He pulled up the man’s shirt. Blood welled from a small hole near the operator’s belly button. Red plunged in his middle finger, through meaty abdominals, and twisted, probing, pushing over and around slimy intestines. A pulse against his skin. Frantically, he dove and looped his finger against the source of the flow, clamping it against the inside of his abdominal wall. Almost instantly, the man drew a deep breath. Can’t let you die yet.

  Keeping the artery pinched, Red stretched his arm and leaned close to the operator’s ear. “Here lies a stupid shit, shot by a ten-year-old girl. That’s what I’m gonna carve on your sorry-ass grave.” He gripped the blade over the man’s eye so he could see it. “No, hold on. You’re not getting a headstone. I’m gonna quarter your ass with your own knife and bury the pieces so deep not even worms will find them. Your own mother will never know what happened.” He took a breath. “Unless you tell me who you’re really working for. Think hard, because I’m holding your life pinched with my middle finger.”

  Now, the darkened pupils seemed to narrow. “CIA. FBI. DEA. Pick one. Like you. Except I’m not the traitorous shit.”

  Red tightened his grip on the knife’s tang, ready to plunge the blade through the operator’s eye.

  Gravel crunched nearby. Penny stood a few feet away, green toolbox with a red cross in one hand, eyes as wide as the dying man’s, staring at her father. “Shit,” Red muttered, and tossed the knife aside.

  The clamp of the Jamaican’s fist relaxed, his thick arm fell to the ground, and his stare drifted distant again.

  No. Not now. Red pressed fingers to his neck and listened for breath, but none came. He slapped his face, trying to wake him. “I need more than that. Gimme a name!” Nothing.

  “Damn it!” He pounded his fist onto the dead man’s chest. He could try CPR, but he’d have to release the artery. All options were counterproductive.