Not much help, Finley groused to himself. He peeked out again from behind the vegetable stand – the bad guys were only a couple of hundred yards away. “They’re almost here!” he shouted into the phone. “About to engage!”
“Frank,” Honeycutt said sternly. “We could be wrong about this car. Do not fire until they fire first! We can’t risk killing some innocent civilians.”
Great. Just great, Finley thought sourly. He stuffed the phone inside his jacket pocket and moved to the right-hand side of the vegetable stand, so he would have it between him and the approaching car. Within seconds he could hear it moving at slow speed and see the area brighten under its headlights. He dropped to one knee and brought the rifle to his shoulder, resting his elbow on his raised knee. His right knee was instantly soaked with cold water, but the ballcap kept the rain out of his eyes.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered to the strange car. “Just keep driving by.”
______________
In North Harbor, Alejandro and Javier waited at the entrance to the street Finley lived on. Rain beat steadily against the windshield, obscuring them from any passersby, but also making their surveillance more difficult.
“What time is it?” Alejandro asked irritably.
“Bit after five,” Javier replied.
“Where is that fucking kid?” Alejandro was annoyed. They could have killed the woman twice over and be done with it if they weren’t waiting for the son to come home from school.
Javier shrugged. “Maybe he belongs to a club at school or something. Give it another ten or fifteen minutes, then we’ll go in and take care of the old lady. We can pop the woman and wait for the kid just as easy inside as here.”
“Ten minutes,” Alejandro said. “My ass hurts from all this sitting.”
“Claro, claro,” Javier said. He hated it when Alejandro got into a bad mood. It was like being in a closet with a bad-tempered scorpion – no good could come of it.
______________
As they approached the stopped police car, Hugo strained to see if anyone was inside, but the windows were slightly tinted and the rain covered them. He wasn’t worried they had been spotted. They had trailed Finley mostly out of his sight, and now were coming from an entirely different direction than they had been traveling earlier. Plus, he wasn’t getting any vibe from the car, nothing that suggested danger.
Still…
“This is the right car, yes?” he asked Diego.
Diego glanced at the laptop for confirmation. “Tracker says it is,” he confirmed.
“Okay, I’m not stopping, but when we get there, I’ll slow down a bit to give you a better shot.”
“I’m ready,” Diego said, rifle to his shoulder. He was calm now. It was one of the reasons he had been picked for the hit squad. He clicked off the safety. He had a banana clip feeding the rifle, so he could hose down the front compartment something fierce.
Hugo eased off on the gas pedal a bit.
Fifty yards.
Forty.
Thirty. He slowed down even more.
Twenty.
“Get ready!” he shouted to Diego, who had been ready since they made the U-turn.
Ten.
Hugo tapped the brake as they pulled abreast of the Ford Police Interceptor.
Diego opened fire on full automatic, emptying one clip and quickly replacing it with another. The Ford’s driver window shattered with a dozen holes in it and fell into the car. The passenger side window blew out, then the rear left window disappeared. The car rocked with the impact of sixty high-velocity rounds. A small fire started under the dashboard, creating eerie, flickering shadows that gave the impression of movement.
The second magazine emptied and the bolt locked back.
Hugo brought the car to a complete stop. The two leaned out to look at the smoking ruin.
“Madre de Dios! I think he’s still alive,” Javier cursed as he saw a flickering shadow. He reached for another magazine.
______________
From his kneeling position sixty feet south of the two hitmen, Finley opened up with his AR-15. It was not a fully automatic weapon, like the hitmen’s AK-47, so it only fired one shot with every trigger pull. But it was fast enough.
The first twelve bullets riddled the back seat, where he had clearly seen the flash of the AK-47’s firing. One of the rounds passed cleanly through Diego’s neck, blowing out his carotid artery from back to front. Diego dropped the rifle and clawed at his throat with both hands, but it was already too late. A half inch of his artery had been shredded by the bullet and blood was pumping out faster than Diego could stop it. His brain reacted to the abrupt loss of blood pressure by promptly shutting down and he slumped forward, his head lolling out the window and blood splattering to the ground.
Finley emptied the first 30-round magazine in just under twenty seconds, dropped the magazine and slipped in the second one, then opened fire again.
In his excitement, he shot a little high. Hugo opened the car door and threw himself to the ground, safe for the moment from Finley’s barrage. He peered under the car trying to spot the bastard who ambushed them, and saw the rifle flashes near some sort of hut across the street. Holding his .45 caliber two inches off the road, he fired five times.
Finley heard the sickening “zippppp!” of the shots passing by on his left, and dove right, rolling and coming up on his stomach. His eyes were blinking stars from the muzzle flash of the .45, and shook his head in a vain effort to clear his vision. Fuck it. Aiming as best he could, he emptied his magazine at the space underneath the car, and was rewarded with a grunt of pain from the other side. There were two more shots from the Cartel hit man, neither close. Finley rolled two more times, managing to give himself vertigo, then crawled rapidly behind a pile of wooden pallets.
In the distance, the sound of a siren.
Hurry up, Finley pleaded. Hurry up!
The Cartel hitman fired four more shots at the spot where Finley had been until just a moment ago. Finley did not fire back, but kept his position behind the stack of wooden pallets, waiting for a clear shot. Then a State Police cruiser skidded to a stop fifty feet from the two cars involved in the firefight. Finley frowned; it wasn’t Honeycutt’s man, it was just a State cop responding to gunshots.
A young State Police officer leapt from the car, weapon drawn. His car blocked any clear shot from the Cartel gunman…hopefully.
“Get down!” Finley shouted. “He’s between the two cars!”
The State cop dimly saw Finley in the dark shadows behind the pallets…and the unmistakable shape of a rifle. Instantly, he swiveled and pointed his weapon at Finley. “Drop your weapon! Drop your weapon or I will fire!” he screamed.
“I’m a cop!” Finley screamed back. “The gunman is between the two cars! Don’t expose yourself!”
The young State Trooper, not to be tricked by something as simple as this, screamed, “Drop your weapon or I will shoot you!”
“Jesus God!” Finley snarled to himself. This was a nightmare. “Goddammit, I’m a cop with the North Harbor Police Department! I’m--,” but he was suddenly interrupted by a voice from between the cars.
“Officer, watch out!” Hugo called in a deep, authoritative voice without any trace of a Dominican accent. “That man is a hitman for the mob. He tried to ambush me. My name is Frank Finley of the North Harbor police. I’m wounded or I could show you my badge. Be very careful; that man is dangerous!”
When he first heard the second voice, the State Trooper wheeled around to point his gun at the two cars, but he couldn’t see Hugo. “Where are you? Show me your hands!” Then he swiveled desperately back to Finley, then back again in the direction of the new voice, then back to Finley.
It was a game he would have to lose and all three men there knew it.
“For the love of Christ,” Finley shouted. “Stay behind your vehicle and call for backup!”
“Officer, don’t let him get away!” Hugo shouted in return. “Call for
your backup, but keep him pinned down!”
The young State Trooper pivoted back and forth between the two voices one more time. Had he been more experienced, he would have known to slide to the rear of his vehicle and call in reinforcements. But he was young and new at the job, and knowing that there was a man with a rifle out there in the gathering gloom spooked him.
Stepping to the right, the State Trooper slid into his vehicle, reaching for the radio with one hand and his Bushmaster XM15 with the other. The Bushmaster was an assault rifle that was almost a clone of the AR-15 Finley carried. Thus occupied, he never saw Hugo stand up and fire five .45 caliber rounds through his windshield. One struck him squarely in his vest, one blew away his lower jaw and one took him squarely in the throat. Hugo ducked back out of sight just as Finley got his rifle up and fired an angry fusillade, hitting nothing.
“Goddammit to hell!” Finley shouted, looking at the blood-splattered State Trooper.
“You’re next,” Hugo taunted.
More sirens. One from the north. One from the south.
One distant. One surprisingly close.
______________
In North Harbor, Alejandro and Javier were growing inpatient.
“The fucking kid must be home already,” Alejandro scowled. “Who stays at high school until five o’clock?”
Javier shrugged. He knew nothing about high school. He had dropped out in the sixth grade and learned his trade on the streets. “Maybe there’s a shortcut or something. You know, walking. He doesn’t have to drive.” But he glanced out the window and thought the kid would have to be pretty stupid to walk home in this weather.
Alejandro grunted, then took out his pistol and pulled back on the slide until he saw brass, then released it. “Let’s go,” he said shortly. “I’m tired of waiting.”
Javier nodded and checked his pistol. Alejandro started the car and turned into the long drive to Finley’s house. They were both relieved to finally be doing something.
______________
Finley got on the phone and called Honeycutt. As soon as he answered, Finley said, “Howard, tell your man arriving at the shooting scene that I am hiding behind some wooden pallets to the left of the road. Got that, west side of the road. The asshole will call out to him and tell him that’s he’s me. Tell your man not to fall for it or he’ll end up as dead as the State Trooper who fell for it five minutes ago.”
“Frank?” Honeycutt said, trying to catch up.
“Just do it, Howard,” Finley said urgently. “Your guy is coming from the south and will be here in a few seconds. Hurry!” He cut the connection. He paused, suddenly caught by the sensation that he was missing something. Something important.
Then the DEA agent arrived in a black SUV, at first parking close to the two bullet-ridden cars, but then abruptly reversing and backing up quickly to a distance of forty feet or so and turning so that the car would shield the driver when he got out. Must have gotten the call from Howard, Finley thought with satisfaction.
The other siren was still closing in.
Finley’s phone rang. It was Honeycutt. “Frank, I’ve got you on a conference call with Michael London,” Honeycutt said primly, as if this were a business conference and he was introducing Finley to a potential business partner.
“London, can you get over to the east side of the two cars and keep this guy from escaping that way?” Finley asked.
In response, the SUV backed up and straightened out, then moved closer to the cars and turned on its high beams. The two cars were lit up as if by floodlights. Finley could see the driver get out and, crouching, duck walk to the rear of the car and take up position.
“I’ve got a clear view of the east side of the police car,” London said calmly. The road’s clear for about thirty feet on the east side, then there’s some scrub brush. If he tries to get across, I’ll nail him.”
“Okay,” Finley breathed, the knot in his gut relaxing just a little bit. “He’s got a pistol, a .45 I think. They initially shot at me with some sort of assault rifle on full auto, but I must of hit the guy with the rifle, because this asshole has been shooting by himself.”
“You want to rush him, or wait for Bobby?” London asked.
Honeycutt broke in. “That’s Robert Lubik,” he said. “The drone shows him about two minutes from you.”
“Let’s wait,” Finley said. “This guy’s good. He played the State Trooper, then nailed him. London, what are you using?”
London chuckled. “I’ve got an HK416 and the love of Baby Jesus right here in my pocket.”
Finley shook his head at the old movie reference. The DEA agent was a film buff. “Auto or semi-auto?”
“Full auto.”
“Okay, I’ve got a semi-auto AR-15 and two mags left. We outgun this guy, but I really want to take him alive.”
“You really think this guy is going to surrender?” London asked skeptically.
Finley doubted it, but wanted to try. He needed information.
______________
Hugo crept behind the police car to see if he could get away into the woods or something, only to discover there were no woods. Instead, there was a wide, sandy area that would leave him completely exposed, and after that some low scrub that wasn’t much better. Then the next cop arrived and turned his headlights on his escape route.
“Fuck me,” Hugo muttered. He crawled back to the rental car, ignoring the sight of Diego’s bloody head sticking out of the window. For the first time he noticed that the barrel of the AK-47 was also protruding from the window. That might help. He glanced quickly through the window to where Finley was hiding, but couldn’t see anything. Snatching the AK-47, he ducked back down and examined it. Seemed to be in working order. He popped out the magazine, but couldn’t tell how many rounds were left. Snapped it back into place and holstered his pistol.
Hugo was resigned to the fact that he would probably die here. It was always going to be a day like this – rain and dark and what should have been a simple hit turned into a clusterfuck. It had to happen eventually. He shrugged. Fuck it. It was what it was. Now the thing was to go down fighting. He could hear the third car coming and knew he had to act while the odds were only two-to-one. Crossing the open space behind the police car was suicide, so he’d charge straight at Finley, and if Lady Luck threw him a bone, he just might take the bastard out before he died.
Deep breath, then he was up and running. Not yelling. Silent as an owl, the steady rain muffling the sound of his feet. Running, gun up, towards the wooden pallets where he last saw Finley. Just a little further.
Still nothing. Still nothing. Then he was around the side of the pallets, firing the AK-47 behind the pallets until the magazine ran dry, then drawing his pistol and–
______________
Later, Finley would never be able to recall what alerted him. He was watching the hitmen’s car through an opening between two of the stacked pallets. It was getting dark fast. The only discernable noise was the steady drumbeat of the rain and the siren of the second DEA agent, less than a mile away. He was thinking what he would do if he were the hitman, hearing more reinforcements coming, knowing he was trapped.
Then, without any conscious thought, he scurried around the corner of the pallets so he was on the east side, not the south side where he had been hiding. While he was still wondering why he moved, a fusillade of bullets raked the ground where he had been.
Then, a pause as the hitman’s assault rifle ran out of bullets.
Finley popped up, his AR-15 to his shoulder and the gunman was there, right there, five feet away, caught in the process of drawing his pistol out of his holster.
Finley instinctively fired, stitching three rounds into the man’s chest, then watched in consternation as the man crumbled. Christ, no! Had to keep this guy alive. He scrambled back around the corner of the pallets and kicked the man’s rifle and pistol away. Blood bubbled on the man’s lips with each labored breath, but when he saw Finley, he spat.
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“Pinche culero!” he coughed, spraying the air with blood. He smirked at Finley through bloody lips. “Too late for your family, pendejo!”
Finley stared at him, ice in his bowels. “What? What?” He shook the man. “What about my family?”
But the hitman was dead.
The DEA agents, London and Lubik, stood over him, weapons in hand, glancing around to make sure no one else was in play near them. “You okay?” London asked. Finley looked at him, stricken. Then he ran to the police car he had driven from North Harbor, stopping only when he saw the two flat tires and the numerous holes in the engine.
“They’re trying to kill my family!” he shouted at the two astonished DEA agents. “I need you to drive me back!”
London didn’t say anything, just ran to his car and turned it around. Finley piled into the passenger seat and they accelerated back towards North Harbor, siren blaring and lights flashing, going much too fast for safety. Finley dug out his phone again and called his wife.
No answer.
He cut the connection and tried his father-in-law, Luc Dumas. The phone rang and rang…but there was no answer.
“Call the North Harbor police?” Agent London suggested.
Finley shook his head. “For all I know, it is the North Harbor police at my house right now.”
“Honeycutt?” London asked.
Finley called him and Honeycutt picked up on the first ring. “Frank!” Honeycutt was shouting. “I’ve sent a team, but they’re coming from Ellsworth and won’t get there until after you do. I also called the Coast Guard in Rockland. They’re launching in a couple of minutes. It’s only a five minute flight for them. Where are you?”
Finley realized he had no idea. He glanced at London.
“We’re taking Hinkley Ridge Road to Rte. 177 south, bypassing Blue Hill,” the DEA agent said crisply, driving way too fast for the poor conditions. “Tell him we’re about three miles from turning south onto Rte. 176.”
Finley relayed the information, but he fought back a scream of despair. They were still thirty minutes from North Harbor.
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