Sure, without me, she would still be harboring hatred for Baxter, would still be looking for an opening, but it would be just that. She would be going home each night, waiting for something that might never come.
Which was still potentially a far better outcome than what we were now staring at.
Standing and watching her go, the thoughts had swirled through my head, forming a veritable hurricane as I waited the interminable ten minutes for her to get into position. Time and time again, different ideas forced their way to the surface, holding sway for a moment before being pulled back into the mesh, everything writhing, trying to force itself into something that made sense.
Not until just a couple of minutes remained, the final bit of the agreed-to time ticking away, did it fall into place, landing in a form I could ignore no longer.
Just as I had realized three nights earlier, standing in the kitchen of my apartment, hiding from something was no way to live. Hell, it wasn’t really living at all.
It was just sitting around and waiting, looking over a shoulder, trying to ignore the obvious.
I had been doing it in the Witness Protection Program, at least having the benefit of putting Eric Baxter away in the process.
Lou hadn’t been so lucky. She’d buried her father, had been brushed aside, had continued to see the work of the man responsible pop up around her.
For me to try and deny her closure, to try and force her to continue ducking it, would be wrong. No matter how altruistic my intentions, I would be keeping her moving laterally, demanding she stay away from the light.
Hidden.
Once that realization had hit, had flooded through me in a quick wave, I had shoved aside all concerns. All worries about what we were doing, about whatever dangers lay ahead.
Climbing back into the car, I had reversed out of the gravel embankment on the side of the road, slinging loose stone in my wake as I pointed the front toward Baxter’s. Running fast, I covered the distance in no time at all, my adrenaline, my nerves, spiking like the red needles on the dash in front of me.
For more than a minute, I pushed through the darkened world, all light blotted out by the pine trees towering high on either side of the road. With the lights off, I ran strictly by feel, guided by a faint glow in the distance, knowing exactly what it was, what it represented.
The sole sound was the enormous engine beneath me, cubic horsepower hurtling me forward, intent on finishing something six years in the making, a task I should have seen through before it involved anybody else.
Like Lou. And her father.
And Uncle Jep.
Veins jumped along the lengths of my arms as I squeezed the wheel tight, a snarl curling back my lips. On either side, the tree line peeled away, the shape of Baxter’s Auto Body rising before me, a monolith placed in the middle of the forest, a spot where such a monstrosity had no reason to be.
Reaching to the passenger seat, I took up the same duffel I’d been carrying for days, its contents much lighter as I tugged it over onto my lap.
Pushing the gas a little harder, I set the cruise control, pinning the speedometer at fifty miles an hour, my target just a quarter mile out and closing.
Extending one hand over the dash, I reached to the pair of grenades taped to the windshield, sliding the pins free, nothing but adhesive holding their levers down.
Making sure the front hood was aimed just where I wanted it, the front grill poised for the enormous roll top door in the center of the structure, I grasped the door handle. Gripping the duffel in my opposite hand, I jerked it open, hurtling myself out.
Pain rippled up through my arm as my exposed shoulder bit into the dirt and gravel surrounding the shop. Hunching my back, I rolled three complete revolutions, letting my momentum carry me away.
With each one I could feel the biting sting of rock and dirt digging into my skin, eating at the exposed flesh, dust rising in a plume around me.
On the third complete turn, I stopped face down on the ground, the duffel bag pinned beneath me. One hand I used to unzip the top, the other I flung over the crown of my skull.
Staying there, I waited, panting, listening for the telltale sign of my impromptu projectile hitting home.
An instant later, it did just that, the crash loud and angry, the sounds of twisted steel and shattered glass ringing out, buttressed by the tires continuing to chew at the concrete of the shop, the squeal of whatever it was pinned against objecting to it going any further.
A successful first contact, it still wasn’t what I was waiting for, keeping myself stowed in place a moment longer.
Right up until the moment the tape on the front windshield gave way, the explosion setting off a chain reaction of the other grenades strewn across the back seat, the ammunition waiting in the trunk, even the front engine, the entire car going up in a fiery pyre that sent a shower of heat and shrapnel over my body.
A shower that was just barely passed before I was on my feet, ripping the sub-machine gun and the Beretta from the duffel.
I had hidden from the Baxters long enough.
Chapter Eighty-One
Part One was the car.
Tucked up behind the base of the cottonwood tree, Talula Davis heard the engine the moment it came within range of her. Drawing her feet up beneath her, she braced her back against the wood, using it for balance.
Every nerve in her body drew tight as the sound grew closer, louder, ending in a loud crash just a hundred yards from where she was crouched.
Drawing her wrists up toward her shoulders, she held the barrels of the twin HK’s pointed at the sky, pulling in shallow breaths, waiting for Part Two.
Just fifteen seconds later it arrived in the form of the fiery explosion, a massive wail of twisted metal and shrapnel, bits and pieces of it landing in a wide arc around the warehouse. Smacking against the leaves of the forest around her, Davis could hear them raining down, feel the wave of heat that rolled out a moment later.
Passing over the ground in a quick swell, it raised the temperature as much as twenty degrees, gone as fast as it arrived, leaving fresh sweat and dust on her skin in its wake.
Still leaning back against the tree, she pushed herself to her feet, weapons ready, waiting for Part Three to arrive.
There was a slight delay, almost half a minute in length, long enough that for just an instant Davis worried that something had gone wrong with the first two phases. That Tim hadn’t made it out of the car. That he had, but his fall had injured him.
That he had been maimed by flying debris in the wake of the explosion.
Running the concerns through her head, trying to plan how she would react if any one of them were true, she heard Part Three begin.
In a flash, all previous thoughts bled away, her body springing into action, flinging her forward in a way she had ached for for so long.
Spinning out from the base of the tree, she could see the silhouette of Tim before her, his body a black outline, framed in the massive structure of the warehouse. Cased by light spilling out, by random tendrils of flame, he stood in the center of the roll top door opening into the place.
With his back to her, she could just barely see the submachine gun in his hands, the orange flickers of bullets it was spitting out.
Laying down a heavy layer of suppression fire, Part Three was simply for him to make enough noise to get her close.
From there, they would see how things went, adjust on the fly.
Trying to plan any more than that would have been futile, a venture both understood would likely only trip them up. They were a small team with limited arms. Surprise and speed were their allies.
They lost that the moment they allowed themselves to get bogged down with too many moving parts.
Abandoning the trees, Davis veered out onto the road, the hard pavement beneath her feet giving her solid footing, allowing her to fling herself forward. Both arms formed into ninety-degree angles, she pounded as fast as she could, sweat flying with each stride
, her breath tight in her chest.
There were only so many bullets in the magazine of a Bizon.
She had to get there by the time he was out of ammunition.
Little by little, she closed the gap between them, watching as Tim continued firing on the structure. One after another he sprayed the front of the place, twisting his hips to either side.
The clip lasted until just ten yards separated them, Tim continuing his side-to-side passes, the sound of the bullets passing, the sight of the orange blossoms of light falling away.
In their stead, the world fell silent for a moment, Davis hearing only her own breathing, the slap of her boots against the pavement as she came forward.
Shifting her focus to the building, she watched as fingers of flame continued licking upward, uneven seams of orange and yellow fighting for supremacy.
Watched further still as a shadow emerged along the right edge of the opening, an arm extended, the outline of a weapon visible.
Pointed directly at Tim, it came just a few steps forward, no more than half a body becoming visible before Davis held both the HK’s at shoulder height. Shooting in tandem, she peppered the area, bullets smashing into the side of the building, sparks of light flashing.
As fast as the arm had appeared, it was gone again, retracted back inside.
Releasing just a few more bullets to be sure, Davis pulled up beside Tim.
Tugging his Beretta from the small of his back, he dropped the Bizon to the ground beside him, glancing over at her.
“Nice of you to join us.”
Offering no response to the crack at all, she said simply, “You’re welcome.”
Chapter Eighty-Two
Radney Creel could smell his own flesh cooking. Resembling the scent of charred pork, it was coming from his left side, the cause of it a three-inch chunk of twisted steel protruding from his bicep.
One nearly twice as long was lodged into his left knee, rendering the joint a mash of bone and tendon and ligament.
When he’d first heard the sound of the car approaching, he had braced for the collision. Squirreling himself behind the Gran Torino, he had waited for the impact, having seen the move play out more times than he could remember.
Expecting for Scarberry to come flying in right after it, guns drawn, Creel had messed up.
He had slipped around the back end of the Gran Torino, looking for the optimal vantage, ready to mow Scarberry down the instant he appeared.
Not once had he considered that the car was rigged.
The initial explosion gave him pause, his natural instincts taking over. Raising a hand to deflect the first blast of heat and light, he hadn’t moved quickly enough to clear himself from the follow-up.
By the time the chain reaction began, explosives igniting one another, culminating with the engine, it was too late.
The pieces that had got him were gnarled like twisted pretzels, the metal hot, sizzling his flesh. On entry, they had felt like hot irons being jammed into him, pain receptors sending messages hurtling the length of his body.
As fast as they arrived, the superheated metal and his body’s own protective processes had intervened, the nerves deadening, nothing but a tingling cool emanating the length of him.
Taking with it most useful movement.
Staying tucked back in his hiding spot, he stared down at the foreign items protruding from him, the sight of them only raising the animosity he felt.
This affair had been a disaster from the word go.
Now, it was just time for it to be over, for him to rid the world of every last person present and be on his way.
Outside, the sound of automatic fire could be heard, a random spray moving in a haphazard pattern, breaking glass, making a lot of noise, but not accomplishing much of any worth.
Recognizing it for what it was, Creel stayed put, his body propped awkwardly on one knee, watching as Elijah Pyle emerged from the shadows once again.
For the only time he can remember, there was no cigar clamped between his lips, only his guns and blindingly white torso remaining as his hallmarks.
Pulling up beside him, Pyle looked at the foreign objects lodged in various places - at the streaks of blood running down into the crook of Creel’s elbow, the knee of his jeans a shredded mass of blood and char - the usual look of bemusement on his face.
“Aw, did you get a booboo?”
“Go to hell,” Creel replied.
“You and me both,” Pyle replied, twisting to look back over a shoulder.
Waiting side by side, they listened as the shooting died away, the world falling silent for an instant.
Keeping his glance aimed in the opposite direction, Pyle said, “I’m going to slip around, see if I can’t get a clear bead on him. After that, I’m heading toward the back corner, try to lure him in.”
Not sure if this was a working plan or a directive to do the opposite, Creel only grunted in response.
Without another word, as fast as Pyle had arrived, he was gone.
Watching him go, Creel bit back the desire to unload on the man’s back, to stripe his pale bare torso with half a clip or more.
To stand over his body and give his own amused grin. Ask him if he had a few booboos.
Jerking his attention away, knowing that eventuality would come soon enough, Creel shoved himself to his feet, his left arm flopping by his side, his leg in agony, unable to bend, a Glock 19 in his hand. Twisting out in the opposite direction as Pyle, he heard a volley of smaller arms fire erupt, pinging against the side of the building.
Shuffling along as much as his battered form would allow, he didn’t bother checking to see the outcome.
Whether Pyle hit someone outside or they hit him worked just as well for Creel.
Casting a glance up to the office on the second floor, he could see two of the glass panes had been destroyed, either by the explosion or the gunfire that followed it. Despite the lights still being on, he couldn’t see any sign of movement inside, not knowing whether Baxter was alive or not.
Not particularly caring at the moment.
Circling past the charred and burning wreckage of the car in the center of the space, Creel made a wide loop, headed toward the back wall, careful to keep himself beyond the flickering light of the bonfire sprouting from the shattered engine block.
Breath coming in ragged bursts, pain receptors firing from every possible opening, he slid between various pieces of machinery, their various shapes and angles providing ample coverage, giving himself the best viewpoint he could find before settling in to wait.
Something told him it wouldn’t be long.
Chapter Eighty-Three
“You good?”
I could feel small burns and tears along the entire backside of my body, results of the explosion a few minutes before. Had I to do it over, I would have bailed a bit earlier, but I needed to be sure the Charger went exactly where I wanted it to.
The roll top doors were big, but it wasn’t like I had the whole side of the warehouse to work with.
“Good,” I said, thrusting one shoulder out, rolling it forward, shaking away any bit of tightness that might exist in the joint. “You?”
Glancing over, I could see firelight dancing off the sweat and dirt and grime painting her features. With her long black ponytail and guns in both hands, she looked like the embodiment of her ancestors, a modern day take on what a warrior should be.
“Let’s do this,” she said.
“I’ll go right,” I said.
Not another word was said between us. No admonishments to be careful, no promises to meet up afterward.
Besides neither one of us possibly being able to keep them, we both knew there was no need. We had walked into this willingly, knew what the cost might be.
We also both knew that if anything happened to one of us, the other would do whatever they could to make sure my uncle and her father were avenged.
The ground outside of the warehouse was nothing more than dirt
and gravel, the pavement ending abruptly at the edge of the road. Underfoot, it crunched with each step I took, the Beretta extended to full length in my right hand, left cupped under it for support.
As I drew closer, I could smell the char of the recent explosion, the scent of the interior of the car burning. Mixed in were an assortment of chemicals, even some fresh paint, a strong concoction that burned the nostrils and eyes.
Raising my pace into a jog, I swung out wide from the open doorway, arriving a few moments later, bracing myself against the very spot that Lou had been using for target practice just moments before.
Pressing my shoulder tight against it, I could see Lou doing the same opposite me.
Each with a better vantage of the area on the opposite side, I scanned the ground beyond where she was. Releasing my hand left hand from the gun, I fixed my middle and index fingers into a V, motioning from my eyes to the space beyond where she was.
Following it in order, I held up a clenched fist, signaling that it was clear, she could proceed.
Fifteen feet away, she nodded, using her own hand to signal the same to me, doing as best she could despite the weapon curled into her fist.
Giving her the same sign of acceptance, I drew in one deep breath.
Conjured up the image of the chess piece in Uncle Jep’s bedroom.
Spun out around the edge of the doorway, gun extended before me.
The interior of the warehouse was at least a hundred degrees, the combination of the metal roofing and the wildfire burning from the Charger making the place a veritable oven. A heavy film of sweat immediately came to my features as I inched my way forward, the front tip of the Beretta like some form of primal metal detector, flashing from left to right.
Around me were the silent vestiges of a working metal shop, presses and torches scattered between oversized benches, most everything left where it was last used, cast aside at the end of one day, ready to be grabbed at the start of another.
Weaving my way through them, their various pieces and implements were extended outward, silent miniature castoffs from a Transformers movie set.
The Subway Page 28
