Rockfall

by William Allen

  I was preparing to fire up my iPhone when I caught sight of Barbara’s Mercedes turning at the corner, just about the same time as the sliding glass doors on the ambulance bay exploded with a bang and a spray of buckshot. I caught sight of two more bandits emerging from the shattered doorway, their faces obscured by ski masks and at least one of them seemingly overburdened with loot. A quick glance back up the street told the ugly truth about to unfold, as an unaware Barbara was seconds away from driving right into the scene of the crime.

  Fuck my life, I thought as I slipped the iPhone back into my breast pocket and effectively exchanged it for the Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm I carried in my jacket pocket. I didn’t know everything about firearms, but I imagined the M&P was intended as a duty weapon for cops back when they carried 9mm. The pistol was bigger than some in that class and reminded me of Nikki’s Ruger P95. I preferred my Ruger, honestly, but I wanted to try carrying the Smith & Wesson. Now I was already beginning to regret the choice just about the time I saw the third shotgun-wielding bandit emerge from the glass-littered doorway, dragging the arm of a clinic staff member likely taken as a hostage.

  Crap. This was going sideways faster than a speeding bullet. I didn’t want to intervene, but I also didn’t want to have to explain to Milt why his wife was dead from a storm of buckshot pellets to the face. Barbara wasn’t family to me, and I didn’t particularly like her some days, but she was my secretary, by God, and that had to mean something. I owed it to her to at least try.

  Easing the door open another inch, I steadied the frame of the pistol against the wood and released my breath.

  “They have a hostage they are likely going to kill. I can already see blood on her face. Barbara Thompson is about to pull into the parking spot and witness their escape. I don’t know if I got my door closed in time, or if they are approaching me. Stop, thief!” I called out that last bit dramatically, and purely for the benefit of the iPhone in my pocket, now running on recorder mode. It sounded loud enough, but I knew the bandits couldn’t hear me. I might be about to do something stupid, but that didn’t mean I’d lost all my marbles.

  The M&P is a striker-fired design, so no exposed hammer. I knew the old-timers bitched about reliability, but I’d shot this pistol enough to have confidence in the mechanism. Not my favorite, but I was going to make the best of it. I had seventeen rounds, and there was no refund for bringing back any that I didn’t use.

  I should have sighted on the closest threat, since that’s what my trainer had stressed. However, real life had a way of overriding my choices, and the piece of filth stuffing the hostage into the back seat of the small sedan finally left his victim uncovered long enough for me to take the shot.

  Bang, bang, bang. I pumped the first three shots into the man’s upper chest over the top of the car at what I estimated was fifteen yards, then transitioned to the driver, who was already beginning to look in my direction. He had the cut-down shotgun at his waist, and he had to lean around the front of the car to bring the maw of that beast to bear on me. I squeezed off two quick shots in the driver’s direction, saw him stumble, and then swung to track the last target.

  Instead, I stumbled and dropped to my knees like a discarded marionette with his strings cut, falling partway through the open doorway.

  Someone watching this fiasco might think I was executing some pre-planned evasive maneuver as I pitched down and forward. I did manage to avoid the mass of buckshot blasting just inches over my head as the third attacker unloaded a blast of twelve-gauge attention in my direction.

  In reality, I’d completely lost situational awareness, losing the position of the third bandit, and tripped over the doorjamb. This was my first visit to the world of the two-way shooting range, and I knew from the beginning I was outnumbered and overmatched. This was the natural progression, but I refused to give up.

  Instead, I kept my pistol up, re-centered on the third shooter, and I emptied the rest of the magazine in the general direction of this last threat as he sprinted around the side of the car. I thought I’d hit him a few times from the way he stumbled, but I knew from my conversations with Mike and Patrick that adrenaline could carry someone through those critical seconds after taking a bullet.

  Regardless of his condition, the robber pumped the slide of the shotgun frantically, seating a fresh shell, just about the same time as a blossom the size of a 9mm bullet sprouted in the middle of his forehead. That stopped him cold, his feet sliding almost comically on the asphalt. We locked eyes, and I saw the awareness snap off like an old cathode ray tube losing power.

  Then it was over. My ears were ringing fiercely, and I was aware of the rips in my abraded suit pants as I knelt there on the uneven concrete slab. My breath came in great, heaving gulps, and I fought off the urge to vomit. I knew I should check on the lady in the back seat of the car, or confirm that all three men were really down and no longer a threat. A kaleidoscope a thoughts rushed through my brain as I felt my emotions surge and my stomach empty itself on the uneven sidewalk.

  I was still there, on my hands and knees, as the first New Albany police officer came screaming up in his cruiser. Thankfully, Barbara Thompson was already crouching next to me, her arms around my neck and crying in terror at the close call. She was doing all the crying, I swear.

  My empty pistol, slide locked back, rested on the faded cement slab a few feet away.

  Before the officer could say anything, I looked up and said one word. Actually, it was the only word I could focus on clearly enough to say at the moment.

  “Lawyer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Holy fuck, boy,” Butch said as he strolled into the interrogation room, grinning like a shark is a tank full of bait fish. “Two dead and one more in the ICU. You don’t mess around, do you?”

  “I was in fear for my life, and the lives of others,” I announced, my voice dull as I repeated my mantra. My knowledge of criminal procedure and the rules of evidence were a bit rusty, but I was up on the rules for handling shootings as regard to concealed carry in Texas.

  “Forget it, Bryan,” Butch Kaminsky instructed. “Nobody’s looking to jam you up on this. Mel’s already promised to run this by the grand jury next week to get you no-billed. You know who that was they were snatching, right?”

  Mel was Mel Fowler, the District Attorney. I wasn’t a huge fan, but he’d done the right thing when he’d found out about the illegalities in the Polinsky case. He’d gotten the previous detective and crime scene investigator fired after the facts came out about the manufactured evidence, but that was it. He hadn’t gone after the sheriff like he should have, but that was just my opinion, and I generally kept such thoughts to myself.

  I shrugged. “I saw them dragging somebody out the back. No idea who she was. Honest, Butch, the only reason why I acted was I saw my secretary about to get sucked into their getaway. I really was in fear for myself and others.”

  Butch gave me another shark smile. Butch was the best criminal defense attorney in the county, maybe even in the area. He was also the man you wanted to call if you were genuinely innocent, because he would fight tooth and nail for his clients. But he was accustomed to dealing with drug dealers, wife beaters, and other generally unsavory individuals, so I guess his sense of humor was a little bit warped.

  “Well, the nurse was one of Teddy Wallace’s nieces. His baby sister’s youngest daughter.”

  “Ah. Well, I hope she’s okay,” I replied, still feeling a bit numb. Teddy Wallace was one of the county commissioners, which meant he was one of the three elected officials who basically ran the county. Not a bad man to have owing you a favor. “How is Barbara?”

  “Your secretary’s fine,” Butch assured me. “Already given her statement, and then held a press conference. I’m sure you’ll be the talk of the town tomorrow.”

  “Awesome,” I grumbled. “Anything else we need to cover before I give my statement to the detective?”

  “Uh, don’t say anything to piss off t
he sheriff,” Butch advised. “I’m sure he’s not going to be pleased with this vigilante justice going down three blocks from his office.”

  That made me stop for a second.

  “Where were the deputies, anyway? I saw Buddy and the city boys show up, but not a single deputy until I got here.”

  I was being questioned at the sheriff’s office, after all. The city cops had their own office, but it was small, as befitted the size of their force. Buddy had three full-time officers, mostly relegated to writing speeding tickets and patrolling the town for break-ins. Sheriff Landshire, on the other hand, had five deputies in the Criminal Investigations division alone, and another ten deputies in the Patrol division. I couldn’t recall how many he had in the last division, the county jail, but I figured it had to be at least as many as he had on patrol.

  “Don’t know, but they had some kind of run-in down around Martelle, so I think most of the patrol elements were drawn that way this morning.”

  Martelle was a one stoplight town south of New Albany, and near the southern boundary of the county. Despite the small size, a lot of drugs coming out of the Beaumont/Port Arthur/Orange area found their way into Martelle. Not coincidentally, in my mind, the Sherwood family compound was located only a few miles outside of the small town as well.

  Lieutenant Bastrop was the detective assigned to the New Albany office, and he’d been coolly polite when I’d elected to wait on my lawyer before making any kind of statement. I understood and tried not to take it personally. Landshire might be a corrupt SOB, but I’d never even heard a whisper of complaint about how Bastrop did his job. Heck, he was the replacement hired when the last detective got canned. He’d only been a deputy for a little over six months, having transferred in from the police department in Longview.

  As for my statement, I told the truth. It was short, to the point, and stressed my concern for the safety of my secretary and the nurse I saw being taken as a hostage. That actually prompted a comment from the detective.

  “If you were concerned about Mrs. Schneider’s safety, why did you initiate a gun battle on the streets of our town, Mr. Hardin?”

  “I did nothing of the sort. I was unaware of any gun battle until one of the bandits took a shot at me,” I explained, pretending to lose my patience at the end. I did tell a little white lie there, but hey, the buckshot from where that kidnapping ass monkey shot out the automatic doors on the ambulance bay doors was too useful to pass up. I had a nice three shot pattern decorating the rear end of my Subaru, anyway. If anybody had audio or even video of the exchange of gunfire, then I was simply gilding the lily with my claim.

  “All I could tell from inside my office was that someone had hit the metal trash container next to the bay entrance to the clinic, something which has been an oft-reported incident since it was installed. I had no warning of an attempted robbery at the clinic, Detective. When that man did shoot in my direction, I refrained from defending myself until after I saw that clown in the ski mask throw her into the getaway car. I was trying to avoid Mrs. Schneider, while defending myself and trying to get Mrs. Thompson to turn away.”

  “Sounds like you had it all figured out then, doesn’t it?”

  “Detective, I’m going to instruct Mr. Hardin not to answer that question, because it wasn’t a question, was it?” Butch snapped, and Detective Bastrop had the decency to color a bit at the reprimand.

  “My apologies, Mr. Hardin, it just sounded a little too pat. I mean, you’ve got no training or background, and yet you managed to overcome three desperate men armed with shotguns. I gotta say, in a close up gunfight, shotguns trump pistols just about every time.”

  “I was hiding behind my door for much of it,” I admitted candidly, “and when they got a shot off in my direction, all I managed to do was trip myself over the doorjamb. Not exactly Rambo, here.”

  “And yet you managed to get all your shots into one of three targets, or into the brick wall behind them,” the lieutenant countered, and all I could do was stare.

  “Sorry, you lost me there,” I said. “I intentionally aimed high, so if I missed, I wouldn’t endanger anyone nearby. But you’re saying I somehow connected with all my shots?”

  “A very uneven distribution, but you managed to hit the first kidnapper with three bullets, the driver with two shots, and the remaining twelve shots were equally divided between that last man and the wall behind him. The driver is in intensive care, suffering with bullet holes to the neck and upper chest.”

  “I can’t explain it, Detective, except for the last attacker. In that case, I was aiming up, and I was aware of the wall behind him. I knew the hostage was in the car, so I wanted to be sure to avoid her at all costs.”

  “Nice to say, but how could you know that?”

  “Detective, how often do you go to the range?”

  “What has that got…no, you are not getting me sidetracked,” Bastrop grumped, then relented. “What are you saying?”

  “Simply put, I have a concealed carry license. And I train regularly. One of the lessons they pound into your head, Detective, is always being aware of what is in front of or behind your target. Fundamentals of shooting, Detective. That’s why I shot the man restraining Mrs. Schneider first, because he was finally pointing the shotgun somewhere else, and he was not able to use her as a shield.”

  Bastrop seemed to pause, absorbing the data, and then he wanted to quiz me about where I’d trained and who trained me. Butch shut him down at that point, pointing out the information on my carry license should be sufficient. I’d passed the qualification, and I routinely maintained my target shooting as any reasonable person would do. There was no rule for how long or where I went for my keeping up my shooting skills, so long as I could pass the test.

  Actually, the shooting range I frequented was no secret, but I went to Andy’s Shooting Sports in Kountze specifically because it wasn’t close. Well, that and the shooting instructor I used there was a retired Texas Ranger. Andy Carstairs, the man who also owned the business. I hadn’t been since the meteor hit, but I was rethinking that decision in light of the day’s events.

  My first visit to the ‘two way shooting range’ and I’d survived largely unscathed. I’d made several mistakes, and I knew I did things wrong from a combination of fear and buck fever. Fear for myself was a big part of it, of course, but I was also afraid for the innocents caught in the crossfire.

  However I got here, I wasn’t wasting time second-guessing my decision to act. Two men were dead, and another wasn’t expected to make it through the night, and my biggest problem was pretending like I cared.

  WEEK THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Remind me, what was that about keeping a low profile?”

  “Suck it, lab rat,” I retorted, grabbing my brother in a bear hug as he entered the kitchen. He was flanked by Marta and Beatrice, his mother-in-law. The kids came in, said hi, and raced into the living room to catch up with their cousins.

  “So what happened in town?” Marta inquired, settling into one of the kitchen chairs. She waved at Nikki, who was straining the pulp off the next load of tomatoes.

  “They were going to kill my secretary. Nobody kills my secretary. I have a rule about that, you know. Violates office policy.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard that,” Marta exclaimed. “Mike just said you got in a shootout outside your office.”

  “Good thing your husband doesn’t work for the newspaper. He tends to bury the lead.”

  “Ha! Nobody’s working at any newspaper anymore,” Beatrice complained. “They’ve censored the things so much, there’s barely anything in that fishwrap anymore other than the crossword puzzle.”

  I laughed at that observation and gave them a quick rundown over what transpired earlier in the week. Nikki had heard it all before and kept doing what she was doing. The work came first, after all.

  “You close down the office?”

  “Hell, no,” I replied sharply. “Once Butch got me
sprung, I went back and worked on a few files. The probate judge finally got around to holding court and I had hearings set the next day. Got my schedule caught up and even managed to get some new work done. That’s one of the reasons why I’m glad you guys came down this weekend.”

  “What have you done, Bryan?” Marta asked carefully.

  I just grinned, savoring the moment. “Well, you know that piece of property next door? The old Bonner place?”

  “You didn’t!” Mike yelled, then looked around sheepishly and lowered his voice. “That listing was nearly double what the land was appraised at.”

  “Yeah, and that’s why I offered the agent a quarter of what they were asking. Cash sale, one week closing.”

  “I take it from your reactions that you managed to close the deal,” Beatrice observed. “What was the purpose? I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why you need more land.”

  “Bea, before the troubles started, I was just a hobby farmer. Raised some chickens, some pigs, and played at being a cattle rancher. Fact is, eighty acres just isn’t enough graze for the kind of production I’m going to need to support us all. We needed that additional ninety acres of pasture, and probably the woods, too. And that’s not even taking the extra housing into account.”

  “I thought the farm house there was falling apart,” Marta interjected, giving me a hard look. Nikki laughed, coming to my defense.

  “No, that’s what the listing agent said. Not falling apart, but outdated,” my sister explained. “The Bonners had the farmhouse retrofitted for electric, but the décor was most recently updated in the mid-sixties. The kitchen is too small, and so are the bedrooms, but there are five of them. Formal living room, dining room and den. Not bad if you don’t mind wood paneling, lead paint, and asbestos.”