Open Chains

by D. F. Bailey

  Finch pressed on in a light jog, careful not to turn an ankle on the uneven ground. “Watch your feet,” he muttered over his shoulder.

  The forest was thick with fir trees but the undergrowth began to thin out as they approached the clamoring dogs. Their wails continued to worry him, and as he ran forward, he could hear the commands of someone bringing them under control. Then he heard a raw slap and the yelp of one of the dogs bleating out a cry of pain. The howling of the pack gave way to low growls and whining, then silence. Finch could clearly make out the voice of a man shouting out his dominance. “That’ll teach you. Now settle the fuck down!”

  A moment later, he detected a break in the forest ahead. He and Eve raced forward until they stood at the edge of a clearing that led to an open field. On the far side of the meadow he spotted three dog kennels. In front of the kennels an enclosed dog run served as common turf for the dogs. Inside the run, three pit bull terriers chased one another from end to end brushing their snouts against the chain link fencing as if they were inhaling Finch’s scent in the wind. To one side of the dog run stood a man gazing in Finch’s direction. He wore an Aussie slouch hat with one side of the brim snapped to the crown, a camo shirt and camo all-weather vest. With one hand braced on the rifle barrel and the gun stock planted against his hip, the Aussie braced his weapon at a forty-five degree angle at his waist. Behind the dog kennels Finch could see what looked like a bunker with a sod roof. From where he stood it could be mistaken for a low hill rising above the flat terrain of the field. A little further south stood a wood shack or outbuilding.

  Despite the threat, Finch pressed Eve forward in a full sprint. They were now halfway across the open ground, about fifty yards from the Aussie. Behind him he could hear Brodie shout to his men, “Faster!”

  “That’s far enough.” The Aussie shouldered his weapon and took a sighting on Finch. “This is private property and I will defend myself.” His voice was calm, even, almost rational.

  Finch came to a halt. Eve stood beside him as they both raised their hands in the air. “There’s been a mass murder back at the pioneer cabin. Three dead,” Finch called out. “The killers are five minutes behind us!”

  From behind him someone yelled, “I can hear them. Keep pushing.”

  The Aussie seemed to consider this. He lowered the barrel of his rifle an inch or two. “The Ostermann’s cabin?”

  Finch called across the field. “The old one with the stone fireplace. Look, these guys are going to fire on us!”

  The Aussie nodded. He dropped the rifle barrel another notch. With his free arm, he waved Finch and Eve forward. “Better move smart,” he said. “But keep your hands up.”

  As they jogged toward the kennels, hands held high, the pit bulls launched into a new frenzy of howling. A madness seemed to consume them. Finch could see the foam shaking from their jowls as they darted back and forth against the chainlink fence. They were massive beasts, well over a hundred pounds of taut, layered muscle.

  Finch was about ten feet from the Aussie when he identified his rifle. An AR-15 Bushmaster. A military grade weapon. At the same moment he heard the tight sound of a muted pistol firing behind him. Puff-cha. Then he glimpsed the burning flash of a bullet whizzing over his shoulder toward the Aussie’s bunker.

  “They’re on us,” Eve called out and dropped to the ground.

  Finch hit the dirt and scrambled forward on his belly.

  “Get behind the posts next to the kennel,” the Aussie commanded. His voice revealed a measure of patience as if he were selecting one of several options, each with a predetermined outcome.

  Eve crawled beside Finch and together they made their way next to the kennel gate. They crouched behind a five-foot high pallet of kiln-dried fence posts. To the left stood three coils of mesh fencing. Perhaps the Aussie planned to build a chicken pen or a new run for the dogs.

  From the cover of the posts, Finch and Eve could make out three men on the far side of the field walking towards the kennels. On the left, he spotted Brodie in his brown trench coat.

  “That’s the Russian on the right,” Eve said.

  “And the other?”

  “Never seen him before.”

  The Aussie fired a burst of shots at the intruders’ feet. “That’s about far enough. You’re on private property and I will defend it.”

  Brodie and his men stopped in their tracks. The Russian and the third man held pistols in their right hands. Both fixed with silencers. Brodie’s pistol hung in an easy, comfortable grip in his left hand.

  “FBI,” Brodie called out. He dug a wallet from his jacket and held it aloft as if he were displaying a badge. “The man and woman beside you just murdered two men and a woman less than three miles from here. Put your weapon down and do not impede their arrest. Otherwise you will be charged with aiding and abetting first degree murder. Do you understand?”

  “That right?” The Aussie glanced at Finch. From the note of doubt in his voice, it was apparent he would give them up unless Finch could making a convincing argument.

  “Look, I used to be a cop,” Eve said. “Ask yourself two questions. When was the last time you ever heard of the FBI using silencers on their weapons? Never happens. And two, why aren’t they wearing FBI field jackets?”

  “Ask to see his badge,” Finch added. “Close up.”

  The Aussie turned his head back toward the field. He kept the AR-15 trained on the men ahead of him. Everyone knew that he could kill all three of them in a few short bursts. “All right. All of you. Throw your weapons behind you. You on the left, walk in slow. Then show me your badge. You other two, stand down.”

  After a some hesitation, Brodie turned and tossed his pistol onto the field behind him. Then he took a moment to confer with the men at his side. Their conversation took a little longer than the Aussie anticipated. To show his impatience, he fired two more rounds into the dirt at Brodie’s feet. Brodie made a hand signal to his two men and they threw their weapons to the ground.

  “All right. Now you on the left. Come on in with your hands in the air,” the Aussie said.

  As Brodie approached, the frenzied barking from the dogs rose to a new height. Finch watched Brodie stepping forward, the open flaps of his coat fluttering sideways with each step. His heavy face appeared calm, his double chin anchoring his head to his neck. His weedy eyebrows, thick. Untamed. He was twenty feet away. Ten. Five. His hands still poised above his shoulders. He glanced at Finch, then away.

  “Close enough. Let’s see your shield.” The barrel of the Aussie’s AR-15 lined up with Brodie’s knees. One shot and he’d never walk again.

  “It’s in my jacket,” Brodie said. “So I’m going to reach in there to get it. Okay?”

  The Aussie nodded with a slight dip of his chin.

  With his right hand Brodie opened the lapel of his jacket. His left hand tugged a wallet from an inside pocket. He passed the closed wallet to the Aussie. The Aussie paused to consider what was happening. His shoulder shifted and he set the AR-15 into the crook of his elbow and with his free hand, he took Brodie’s wallet.

  Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

  The Aussie let out a gasp and slumped against the kennel gate. Finch saw the two men up the field poised in firing stances. Two-handed pistol grips, leaning forward, knees bent, backs straight. In the brief interval, they’d both drawn second weapons from their jackets and fired two rounds each. Neither gun held a noise suppressor screwed to the barrel. Each shot echoed from the hills on the southwest. One bullet caught the Aussie in the upper chest, the others had gone wide. The impact of the winning bullet pushed him sideways. He dropped his rifle and staggered against the kennel railing.

  “Gotcha.” Brodie’s voice came as a gentle whisper, an apology that he might offer after completing a six-move chess maneuver. Certain, calm. Reassuring with its inevitability.

  “ ’Fraid not, Brodie. I broke your story an hour ago. Right now every news outlet in the world is comparing you to Jekyll and Hyde
.” Finch’s voice sounded unshakeable. “I suggest you back off while you still have a chance.”

  Before Brodie could reply, the Aussie shifted his arm and tugged a braided cord that released the kennel latch. The effort seemed to kick the legs from under him. His ass slid to the ground and his back flopped against the kennel post. His hat fell to one side and then toppled onto his lap. He spoke one last word — “Attack” — as a bubble of blood burst from his shirt onto his vest.

  A second later the dogs pounced. One of them clamped his jaws around Brodie’s thigh. He let out a horrible scream. Then, as if they’d been trained for this very mission, the two remaining dogs cut across the field toward Brodie’s enforcers. Finch watched as the men set themselves in a firing stance again and attempted to shoot the pit bulls as they raced forward, howling in rage now that their master was dead. The dogs swerved, snapping at the bullets that blew past them. Then one, two, three shots took down one of the beasts. The second managed to lunge forward and snare the ankle of the third man, then clamber up his body until he clamped the larynx in his teeth and tore it from the man’s throat. The Russian shot the terrier in the head, but it was too late. The dog and the third man died in a perverse embrace. The Russian — so far untouched in the battle — jogged toward Brodie with his gun poised to take out the first dog as soon as he had a clean shot. Meanwhile Brodie wrapped both hands around the dog’s throat as he struggled to keep the whirling jaws from snapping into his face.

  Their screaming and yelping woke Finch to the situation they now faced. “Get to the bunker,” he screamed and grabbed the Aussie’s AR-15 by the handguard.

  As they scrambled past the kennel Finch assessed the terrain ahead. Two buildings stood about twenty feet apart. The first, a low, sloping concrete structure rose from the trammeled grass past the dog kennels. Anchored on the uneven landscape, it rose from the earth like a single mound of granite. The bunker looked as if it could withstand one or two rounds from enemy tanks. The front door — held in place by four massive hinges — was constructed of steel plates. A single window protected by a rack of six bars, looked east toward the dog compound. The top of the building was covered by a six-inch-thick sod roof. From a distance, no one would imagine this camouflaged hideout was anything more than a massive rock jutting up from the earth — let alone a hardened bunker meant to withstand a military assault.

  “Let’s see if we can open the door,” he called over his shoulder as they ran. On the final sprint they heard two more loud pistol cracks and the meek yelp of the first dog. Had the Russian saved Brodie before the terrier ripped him open? Or were Brodie’s wounds just superficial abrasions?

  It took a few seconds for Finch to realize the door to the bunker was locked tight.

  “Let me try,” Eve said and wedged her left hand under the blot latch and tried to lift it straight up. She let out a gasp of exasperation. “What next?”

  “The cabin,” Finch said as he shouldered the AR-15. He glanced toward the kennels to see if Brodie and the Russian had moved forward. Not yet.

  Beside the bunker, perhaps fifty feet to the south, stood the wood-framed house with a shingle roof and a ground-level deck that led to the front door. It was a featureless box. Functional, unadorned, utilitarian. The building’s foot-print was twice the size of Finch’s cottage on Mayne Island, maybe a little bigger.

  In a final sprint they reached the front deck of the house. As Eve struggled with the door knob, Finch leaned against the outside wall and sited the barrel of the rifle toward the kennels. Still no sign of Brodie. But as his hand swept over the pistol grip he realized something was wrong with the rifle.

  “Got it!” She swung open the door and stepped inside.

  “We’ve got a problem,” he said as he slipped through the open door and stood beside her. He kicked the door shut with the heel of his shoe, then shoved the steel bar lock into its gate on the door frame. It looked sturdy enough.

  “What now?”

  “The trigger’s been shot out.” He held the AR-15 so that she could see the damage that had been inflicted on the trigger mechanism during the brief fire fight. “Looks like it and the trigger guard were hit by one of the stray rounds.”

  “So, it’s —”

  “Useless. No way to fire a shot.” Then a new thought struck him. “But it could work as a distraction.” He glanced around the interior of the cottage. “Look for some other weapons. The Aussie probably has a complete arsenal in his bunker. Maybe there’s something else we can find in here.”

  The simplicity of the cabin’s interior held no secrets. The kitchen was little more than a counter top and sink. Above it two open cabinets held stacks of plates, cups, mugs, frying pans, pots, kettles. The drawers below the sink offered the standard array of cutlery and cooking utensils. At the center of the adjacent wall sat a free-standing wood stove with a metal chimney that penetrated the ceiling. Beside the wood burner stood a book case filled with shelves of dried animal skulls and antlers the Aussie had collected over the years. In front of the wood burner sat the only remarkable piece of furniture in the room. An authentic, English leather chesterfield with buttoned upholstery, rolled arms and a high back with nailed trim. On the wall opposite the front door, two doors led into bedrooms. Eve took the room on the right, Finch entered the left. There he discovered a double bed, nicely made up with two fluffed up pillows. Perhaps the Aussie was expecting company and wanted to impress his bedmate. An old dresser stood against the exterior wall next to a closed window. He checked the night table next to the bed, thinking he might find a pistol tucked in the drawer. Nothing. The closet served as a catch-all. Jackets, extra blankets, a life vest, two brooms, a sun umbrella and more.

  “Found something.” Eve’s voice sounded hopeful.

  When he entered the second room she tossed him a narrow rod of light-weight aluminum.

  “What’s this?”

  “Crossbow bolt,” she said. She had the stock of a crossbow braced against her right shoulder. The limb of the bow was branded with red lettering: JOLT. The built-in quiver held three more bolts. Another sat in the flight groove, ready to fire. She pressed her eye to the sight, backed off and tried it again. “It’s not a toy.”

  “You know how to use it?” He ran his thumb over the arrowhead tip. Three synthetic feathers, two yellow, one red, formed the fletching just before the nock at the end of the shaft.

  “Beat out my sister to win the gold in high school,” she whispered as she toyed with the sight set screw.

  “I thought that was for archery,” Finch said, but realized there was no arguing the point.

  “Believe me, this is better.” She leaned against the bedroom doorframe and positioned herself so that she could aim at the front door and shield herself from incoming fire.

  “All right.” Finch passed the aluminum bolt to her and stepped through the door and back into the living room. “Stay here. I’m going to squat behind the sofa and wood stove. I’ll distract them with the AR-15. Maybe you can get off one or two shots.”

  “No worries. This thing is deadly at fifty yards.” Her voice was even, calm, reassuring. “If they step through the front door I’ll nail them.”

  Finch nodded and peered through the front window. To his surprise, he saw Brodie and the Russian twenty feet past the rear of the dog kennels, treading across the open ground towards the concrete bunker. The Russian looked to be unscathed, but Brodie bore several open wounds on his face and left ear. The dog had badly mauled his right leg and he pressed forward with a limp, a pistol dangling from his left hand. Maybe the Russian had doubled back to pick up the discarded weapons. It would account for the delay — and the time for Finch and Eve to prepare for an attack.

  “Brace yourself,” he whispered and made his way across the floor to the old chesterfield. “They’re coming up to the bunker. After that, they’ll head over here. Looks like Brodie’s injured. So if you have a choice, take out the Russian first.”

  “Got it,” she said.


  He couldn’t detect any hesitations in her voice or her posture as she adjusted her grip on the weapon. But Finch felt nervous. The AR-15 was nothing more than a prop and Brodie would recognize the bluff within seconds. A shiver run through his arms. Experience had taught him to embrace the adrenaline as he prepared for a fight. He pushed the heavy chesterfield across the wood floor until the right armrest touched the front corner of the wood stove. The couch, wood stove and rear wall now formed a U-shaped refuge. He hopped over the back of the chesterfield and squatted behind the improvised redoubt. As his feet hit the floor he scattered a set of fire tools against the wall beside him. He pushed an ash shovel, kindling hatchet and fireplace poker to one side and settled the barrel of his rifle on the back of the chesterfield. He aimed it at the door and drew a long breath.

  “You ready?” Her demeanor still cool. Unflappable.

  “Yeah.” His voice emerged as a dry whisper and he tried to wet his lips only to realize that his tongue was dry. When did he last take a sip of water? He thought of making a dash to the sink and opening the spigot over his mouth, but Brodie’s voice caught him off guard.

  “Finch. You can make this easy. Or hard.” Brodie’s words came out in a broken pant. “Open the door. Step outside. I promise to make this quick and clean.”

  So that’s how the devil bargains, Finch told himself. With clichés. As he considered the options he glanced at the kindling hatchet and dragged it next to his knee. The blade, worn and dull, bore a chink at the top end where it had glanced off some rocks or stones.

  He heard the overlapping footfalls of leather shoes on hardpan dirt as the two men approached the front door. They turned the handle and one of them, likely the Russian, threw his weight against the door. The latch held. Again, a heavy push. No give.

  “Shoot it out,” Brodie said in a low voice.

  They stepped back and seconds later, three shots pumped through the wooden door. Two bullets echoed with metallic pings as they severed the sliding bolt that had held the door to the frame. After a brief silence, the Russian pushed the nose of his pistol against the door. It swung inward and a long shaft of sunlight framed both men in the doorway. The Russian stepped forward. Then Brodie. Finch could see his tattered right ear. Below that, blood drizzled down his cheek from a second bite wound.