His Song Silenced

by Michael Arches

  All the contestants got the stew down and kept it down. He shouldn’t have been surprised. If they were willing to risk their lives, and they obviously were, any other sacrifice was minor by comparison.

  -o-o-o-

  After dinner, the rappers were free to entertain themselves as they liked. Linda and Jason went home for the evening, but Skip was scheduled to work late. Boomer and I followed him into the backyard as he patrolled the property.

  “It seemed for a while like we were making great progress,” I said, “but we’re no closer to tagging the LA gang leader or his contact inside the contest. It’s driving me nuts.”

  He patted me on the back. “Maybe everything’s going to be okay now, Hank. The Denver Crips shouldn’t be a problem anymore, and any gangbangers who show up from LA should stick out in this hoity-toity town like wolves in a flock of sheep.”

  I hoped he was right, but I’d lost most of my confidence. “Think about how arrogant they’ve been so far. They grabbed and murdered a man known worldwide. They tried to kill a cop twice. And they’ve gunned down a likely coconspirator in broad daylight. These are not the kind of people who give up easily. They think they can get away with anything.”

  Skip shrugged. “We’re doing everything we can already to protect the rappers.”

  That wasn’t quite right. “We should’ve searched the rest of the house this afternoon, not just their bedrooms.”

  “Nah,” he said, “the place is too big. Too many nooks and crannies. Jenkins is already bitching about how many staffers you’re using.”

  I wasn’t surprised about that. We were a small rural sheriff’s office. But he never should’ve let Aspen PD dump the case on us. I still thought Jenkins had done so because he wanted me to fail. That would surely crater my chances to win the election. Whatever his reason for taking the case, Aspen PD should be doing half of the work.

  While it was still light out, Skip, Boomer and I wandered the backyard looking for threats. The warmth of the day had already melted all of the snow, even in the shadows. Summer was back.

  This backyard had been designed for guests’ relaxation, with lots of benches and comfortable chairs. The grounds were filled with tall trees and colorful shrubs. They provided lots of spots for someone to hide, but someone would have to sneak over a six-foot cedar privacy fence. The three of us found no threats or anything helpful to our case. The not-so-perfect end to a not-so-perfect day.

  -o-o-o-

  Boomer and I headed home in the Jeep I’d rented. I stopped at the scene of the attack last night, but both the delivery truck and my Rubicon were gone. They’d probably been towed to the sheriff’s office’s lot. A chill shot through me as I remembered that damned truck barreling down at me. Couldn’t get it out of my mind until we reached home.

  Because my cabin was much higher in elevation than town, my property still had several inches of snow on it. Rambo remained at Sally’s house, so he didn’t greet the mutt and me.

  I strode into the cabin’s front door and let out a big sigh of relief. Home at last.

  Boomer and I had already eaten, so I cracked open a beer and gave the dog a few treats. For the moment, my life was blessedly peaceful. I stretched out on my old sofa and relaxed.

  Then I noticed the message light on my portable phone was blinking. Twenty-two new messages. Most of them turned out to be friends or reporters trying to get a hold of me. To update my friends, posted a message on my Facebook page. As for the reporters, I deleted their messages unheard. They were supposed to get their information from Jenkins or Randy.

  The beer worked its magic and soothed my restless spirit. I turned off most of the lights to save power in my battery array. Using my tablet, I checked the local news on the Internet.

  The local media websites were filled with stories about the murders, but I ignored those articles and focused on the other news. Lots of folks were closing their businesses and going on vacation until Thanksgiving. Aspen always quieted down dramatically between Labor Day and Thanksgiving.

  After reading for an hour or so, I began having trouble keeping my eyes open. I wasn’t getting nearly as much sleep lately. Also, I’d been mainlining adrenaline for several days. The buzz was finally wearing off.

  I caught myself after accidentally nodding off and realized I’d better head to bed. Before I could sleep, though, I needed to let the dog out to do his business one last time.

  The temperature had dropped dramatically, so I put on a heavy coat and walked out the back door with him. My service pistol remained in its shoulder holster, as usual, just in case any bears or cougars caused trouble.

  The almost full moon gave me plenty of light to see the dog’s tan outline against the white snow. He nosed around and lifted his leg here and there. I made mental plans to visit my horse early in the morning on my way to work.

  The dog knew this was his last chance until morning to sniff around, and he took his time about it. I wanted him to finish quickly, but as usual, he won that battle of wills. If I hurried him, he might leave a nasty surprise inside.

  Finally, he wandered closer to where I stood at the back door. Then, instead of shuffling into the house, he lifted his head into the air and froze.

  Shit! He smelled something new. I reached for him to make sure he didn’t bolt off on a new adventure.

  He gave me a low woo-woo sound. That usually meant somebody was coming. A human not an animal. We walked around the back of the cabin to where I could see the double-track leading to my property. Nobody was approaching.

  Boomer’s tail started to wag. He loved people and thought visitors were always good news.

  I, on the other hand, shuddered. Any visitor would be trouble. A friend would’ve called before dropping by because they knew I was in the middle of a big case. Strangers didn’t have any business dropping by so late in the evening. Worst of all, I couldn’t see evidence of anyone approaching.

  My heart beat faster, but there was a chance I’d misunderstood the mutt. “Are you sure someone’s coming, buddy?” I whispered.

  Woo-woo, he repeated more insistently. Of course, I’m sure. Time to party!

  Dammit! I’d been looking forward to getting a decent night’s sleep.

  We stepped back into the cabin, which was now almost dark. The tablet’s screen had turned off automatically. But I could still see well enough thanks to the moonlight streaming through my southeast facing windows.

  After snagging the pair of night vision binoculars from my coat closet, I stood back from those windows in the shadow and searched for an intruder.

  The access road was clearly visible to the east. As far as I could tell, nothing was on it, man, beast, or machine. The road cut through a band of the national forest, mostly aspens over that way, so I couldn’t see the entire doubletrack. It dead-ended at my wrought iron gate, which marked the beginning of my property. A five-foot-high barbed wire fence kept out the riffraff.

  After I watched for a few minutes without seeing anyone, my heartbeat slowed. Boomer might’ve experienced a brain fart, which did happen regularly. I checked my cellphone. It was 10:43 p.m. If nobody appeared by eleven, I was going to bed anyway. Boomer would always wake me if someone actually came close to the cabin.

  My eyelids drooped again, and when I jolted awake, I checked the phone. I’d nodded off for fifteen minutes. One last time, I scanned the open ground to the east.

  Three light gray blobs stood on the Forest Service land. They had to be wearing camo, but it didn’t quite match the pure-white snow. Son of a bitch!

  I never would’ve seen them without the binocs. They were too tall and light-colored to be mistaken for wildlife.

  My stomach churned. Three? Really? That LA Crips bastard sent three goons to take out little ol’ me? How have I pissed him off so much?

  They moved closer, confirming that I wasn’t scaring the shit out of myself for nothing.

  Time to plot my survival. I grabbed the p
ortable phone on my coffee table and dialed 911. To the dispatcher on duty, I said, “It’s Hank. I need help at my cabin. Three intruders are moving toward my property.”

  “Are you sure they’re not bears or elk, Hank?” the woman asked. “Critters like to move around at night when the moon is out. And remember, everybody’s working insane hours. You don’t want to hit the panic button and be wrong.”

  With as even a voice as I could manage while all my nerves were jangling, I said, “These aren’t fucking bears or lions or elk. Please send help fast. I gotta boogie.”

  “Of course, stay safe.”

  I hung up and crawled back to the window to check on the intruders. They’d spread farther apart. And for the first time, I could see they were carrying rifles.

  And my mutt was the only reason I was aware of this threat. “God bless you, Boomer, you beautiful lunatic.”

  His tail wagged faster.

  Nothing good could happen next. They were two hundred yards away, all bulky, but the guy farthest south was carrying a much bigger backpack than the others. A bomb or enough fuel to drench the cabin and light it up?

  They reached the fence and seemed to melt through it. Each must’ve brought wire cutters. I assumed they were wearing body armor. Approaching without it, even with camo at night, would be suicidal.

  What to do? I could sneak onto the front deck with my elk rifle, but nothing there would protect me from their incoming fire. And three against one were terrible odds.

  Or Plan B, I could stay inside. The cabin’s thick walls would protect me from bullets, but my lovely, large picture windows would get me killed. And if they did have a bomb or gasoline, I’d be roasted to a crisp.

  Plan C—time to bug out. I muzzled the dog, slipped on his ballistic vest, and attached a short leash. I put my bulletproof vest on, too.

  It was below freezing outside, so I wore a down parka with a hood over everything. We could be outside for hours. And I wrapped the strap on the binocs around my neck. My service pistol remained in it shoulder harness under the body armor, but that wasn’t enough firepower. I could’ve swapped out the .45 for my personal pistol, a .357 Magnum Colt Python, but that wasn’t much of an improvement in firepower.

  Needed a long gun. Rifle or shotgun? A rifle would be much more accurate at distance, but it was too dark to see far without a night vision scope, which I didn’t own. A shotgun was a better weapon for shooting closer in.

  I grabbed my twelve gauge and filled one of my parka’s pockets with triple-aught shells. The gun had a full choke, would produce about a fifty-inch pattern at fifty yards. That was the maximum range where I could hope to see anything anyway.

  Time to go.

  Chapter 24

  Boomer and I slipped out the back door, and I locked it. The cabin would block any view of us for the moment. We rushed for a wide band of spruces mixed with pines that grew along a creek that flowed past the north end of my cabin. Only twenty yards away.

  I bent over to reduce my profile as we dashed across the snow-covered ground. Boomer bounded alongside me. This was his idea of great fun.

  Once we reached the thick ribbon of trees, we hid there and waited for the intruders.

  One man soon came around the cabin’s north side. I assumed their plan was to destroy my home, thinking I was asleep inside. That thought sickened me. Virtually everything I owned was in there.

  My hands shook with fury. If I tried to keep them busy until my help arrived, I’d have to fight off three killers for at least fifteen minutes. And if I didn’t, I’d lose a lot of irreplaceable pictures and other family keepsakes.

  I had to divert the attackers’ attention long enough for the cavalry to arrive. So, I pressed Boomer down low behind the trunk of a large old spruce that’d fallen over. Kneeling next him, I rested the shotgun’s barrel on the trunk to steady it.

  Now that I had a plan, my hands had stopped shaking. Guy One was about fifty yards away. I barely made him out with my unaided eyes and aimed at his chest. Squeezed the trigger.

  He yelped and fell down.

  Boomer tried to yelp, too, but his muzzle smothered most of the sound.

  The bastard definitely wore body armor because he staggered to his feet and pointed his rifle at us.

  I ducked behind the thick trunk.

  He sprayed bullets from a fully automatic weapon and shredded our surroundings. Chunks of wood and evergreen boughs filled the air and rained down on us.

  When the shooting stopped, I peeked over the log. Guy One dashed behind the corner of my cabin for protection while he reloaded.

  But a second guy opened up from behind my wellhouse. It was a small structure a dozen feet north of the cabin. He sprayed more lead my way. I was badly outgunned.

  And where the hell was the third guy?

  I checked the dog. He seemed unharmed but squirmed on his leash, trying to run away. We probably should’ve done that instead of picking a fight where I was badly outnumbered.

  I could hear metal clicking as Guy Two switched out magazines. I pulled Boomer along. We wove back deeper into the trees. As usual in bad conditions, the fake foot flopped loosely. Only my right leg kept me upright.

  I could now see to the south. Searched for Guy Three. I didn’t want to let any of them get to the west of us, or they could cut us off from the main body of the forest.

  More bullets blasted the spot where Boomer and I had been. By now, the two shooters on the north side of the cabin had fired at least a hundred rounds.

  What were they planning to do? They had to realize I’d called for help. Because of the snow, all the high passes were closed. The only open road out of this valley led to town, and it was blocked by now. Plus, my backup had to be racing up that road to help me.

  Maybe these assholes were just having too much fun to worry about escaping.

  Boomer and I found a spot where I could see the entire cabin and wellhouse. Someone approached from the south side of the cabin. Guy Three fired in my general direction. He’d gotten rid of his huge backpack.

  More chunks of wood and debris landed on Boomer and me. My mutt whimpered. I wanted to. We should’ve run for the main body of the forest and forgotten about my stuff.

  When the bullets stopped flying again, I peeked up. Guy Three was running for the open steel door at my mine’s portal. Rambo lived in there instead of in a barn. But the mine was empty because Rambo was with Sally.

  Guy Three peeked around the edge of the door. I checked him out with the binocs. The bastard was wearing a face shield in addition to body armor. I doubted my shotgun’s pellets could penetrate the shield, but they might damage it enough to make it hard for him to see me.

  He opened up again with his assault rifle.

  I moved behind a cluster of several large trees and hugged Boomer.

  Guy Three sprayed a wide area, obviously not sure exactly where we were.

  What about the others?

  When the rifle stopped booming, I could hear them running in the snow on the far side of the creek. They were heading west to cut me off from the forest and safety. Too late to change tactics. Boomer and I were trapped.

  Fuck! Saving my cabin is going to cost us our lives.

  One of the two began pushing his way through the trees, just north of me. The other crunched on snow as he continued west toward the mountainside.

  Guy Three peeked out from behind the door a bit more. I wasn’t going to make it easy for them. This was my final stand.

  I fired at his head, hoping some pellets would find a gap in his protection.

  Guy Three’s head snapped back, and he shrieked. Maybe the sudden movement of his head had damaged his spine.

  To my surprise, he collapsed to the snow. I fired four more shells at his crumpled body. Couldn’t tell whether any of them had an effect.

  On the plus side, the guy didn’t move again.

  While I had the chance, I reloaded the shotgun, which empt
ied my pockets. At least two killers were still after me, but I only had seven shells left.

  The guy pushing his way through the trees came much closer. I could hear him breathing hard, and a breaking branch ahead on my left side. That told me where he had to be.

  Couldn’t see him. The darkness inside the grove was almost pitch-black. He was too close for the binocs to do any good. One of them had to be very close. I pulled out my service pistol. Fired three times, waist-high, as I swept the pistol from left to right.

  Someone howled in agony. One bullet had found its target.

  This was my chance to finish him. I staggered through the branches, leaving Boomer and the shotgun behind.

  A dead branch stabbed at my face, cutting me. Ignored it.

  Kept pushing with one solid leg toward the sound of the guy groaning. Found him writhing on the ground holding his groin. A lucky break. My .45 bullet hadn’t penetrated his armored pants, but it must’ve punched his nuts. That blow had bought me a precious few seconds.

  His rifle lay next to him. I grabbed it and tossed it away. Then I yanked off his helmet.

  A Hispanic guy. Burly and bearded.

  I held the barrel of my pistol against his forehead. In a whisper, I said, “Stay quiet, and I might let you live.”

  He nodded.

  “Get up and walk that way.” I pointed back toward the mine portal.

  To the west of us, someone yelled with a strong Texas twang, “Time’s up. We gotta go!”

  His feet crunched on the crusty snow north of the band of trees as he ran east.

  I had no idea why he was leaving—until I heard something in the distance. The telltale whomp-whomp-whomp of a chopper.

  That was how they planned to escape from this valley.

  But before I could worry about stopping Texas Guy and whoever was coming after him, I had to do something with my prisoner, Hispanic Guy. I pushed him toward the mine’s entrance. As long as I moved deliberately, both legs worked fine.

  Along the way, I grabbed my shotgun and the dog. When we reached the southern edge of the trees, I stopped long enough to confirm with my binocs that Guy Three remained crumpled motionless on the ground.