by Alex Ander
Jacob: “Do we know if he’s dirty or somehow involved in Chrissy’s abduction?”
“It’s too early to draw any conclusions, Mr. St. Christopher. I’ve made a few phone calls, but I have not received word from any of my contacts. Do keep me apprised of your situation, and I’ll do the same.”
At twelve-thirty, a tired Stockwell claimed the queen-sized bed, and Jacob stretched out on the sofa.
On his back, bare-chested, a light blanket covering his lower half, left hand sandwiched between his head and a couch pillow, his mind still wired from the day’s events, Jacob stared at the ceiling.
Jacob drew back, took the monocle away from his eye, and squinted at where the girls had been a second ago. Deep creases emerging on his forehead, he looked away and scowled before bringing up the eyepiece and searching the area to find the females again.
Three minutes later, unsuccessful in locating them, he lowered the NV monocle and slammed shut his eyes.
His facial features contorting, Jacob closed his eyes and dug the heels of his hands into his temples. Is it possible? Several thoughts later, Focus, Jake...focus, he washed a hand down his face, threw off the blanket, and stood.
Stockwell stirred.
He shot a look over his shoulder.
Laying on her left side, her bare right leg exposed from hip to toe, a white sheet covering the rest of her body, she nuzzled into her pillow and fell back asleep.
Barefoot, and wearing only black tactical pants, he padded across the room, spread apart the curtains, and regarded the quiet town below.
The motel sign across the street flashed ‘Vacancy.’ Streetlamps made the small town of Mountain Lion glow. Although closed, businesses also glimmered from low-wattage security lights. A black Chevy Tahoe turned left in front of a man and a woman holding hands and entered the motel’s parking lot.
He squinted at the late-model vehicle.
Gentle snoring.
Jacob twisted his upper body to watch his woman sleeping softly. He grinned. Sure, it’s cute now, Jake, but when you’re right next to her, it’s going to sound like—
A distant creaking noise.
His eyes shifted left, toward the door.
Another creak.
Squinting, noticing the doorknob rotating an eighth of an inch left, then right, he bolted toward the door.
The white-colored panel burst inward, splintering the jamb.
Dressed all in black, two men wearing black surgical masks, depicting white vampire teeth on the face covering, stormed through the archway.
Jacob clamped both hands onto the lead invader’s right hand, jerked upward, and...
The assaulter’s pistol discharged.
...pushed him into his accomplice before driving both men into the short hallway as if he were pushing a blocking sled from his high school football days.
Two gunshots in succession.
An overhead light shattered.
The hallway darkened.
The lead man in Jacob’s grasp bellowed while arching his back.
Noticing Lead Man’s gun had ‘stove-piped,’ Jacob sent the disabled firearm into his aggressor’s nose and threw him to the right.
Lead Man thudded into the wall at a ‘right-ninety’ in the hallway floor plan, his gun slipping from his fingers, before he slid to his butt while holding his right side and wincing.
His head down, Accomplice fiddled with his own gun, hitting the magazine base plate with his palm twice then racking the slide to clear a malfunction and chamber a live round. He looked up.
Jacob kicked the two-pound weapon from the man’s hand, connected with a right cross and...
The man’s head whipped to his right.
...reared back for a second blow.
Accomplice shook off the punch, pushed Jacob backward to gain separation, flicked open a switchblade knife, and charged.
*******
In her bra and panties, Stockwell yanked her Glock from its holster on the nightstand, scrambled out of bed, and rushed into the hallway. Seeing the downed man trundling back and forth on the floor, his hand covered in blood, she heard sounds of a scuffle and curled around the ‘right-ninety’ leading with her Glock.
At the other end of the twenty-foot-long hallway, Jacob and Accomplice grappled for possession of a knife, both men twirling around as one entity, each combatant pushing and pulling.
Stockwell took aim at Accomplice’s back, only to be presented with her partner’s backside a moment later. She gripped her nine-millimeter tighter. Come on, Jake. Get out of my wa—
Something closed around her left ankle.
Her left leg flying out from under her, she flailed her arms. The back of her right hand hit the wall on her starboard side. She surfed through the air for a fraction of a second before landing on her right butt cheek.
The Glock escaped her grasp and slid a few feet down the hall toward the male wrestlers.
*******
Both hands on Accomplice’s knife hand, Jacob hit the wall behind him—the door to the outside staircase on his right. On his left, the open stairs leading to the restaurant below. Looking beyond his opponent’s shoulder, he saw Stockwell topple to the floor.
Accomplice threw a headbutt.
Jacob lurched right.
The man’s forehead bounced off the wall.
Jacob pivoted his upper body counterclockwise and nailed him with a right forearm to his jaw.
Accomplice backpedaled, shook free the cobwebs, and came back with a right-handed overhand strike.
Jacob latched on to the offending wrist.
The two men did a one-eighty while shoving each other.
Now facing Stockwell and his fellow criminal, Accomplice let go of the knife, caught it in front of his belt buckle with his left hand, and thrust the weapon upward.
Jacob deflected the strike, got two hands around the man’s left wrist, spun right, lowered his stance, and flipped the knife-wielder over his body and toward Stockwell.
The man came down on his back.
Twisting the man’s hand that gripped the weapon, Jacob prepared to deal out a death knell.
Accomplice rocked his legs over his head, put two boots into the federal agent’s chest, and pushed.
Off balance, Jacob staggered backward before grabbing the staircase railing and steadying himself.
Accomplice jumped to his feet and inched his way closer to his opponent.
One step closer.
Two steps closer.
Jacob glimpsed a black object on the floor just beyond the man’s right knee.
Three steps closer.
Accomplice lunged.
Jacob saw the tip of the blade coming at him.
*******
On her back, Stockwell fought through the pain in her butt and went to her right elbow.
Something wet slapped at her left arm and rolled her back again. A hand closed around her throat a second later.
Seeing Lead Man, her adversary, on her left, she ignored the assault on her windpipe, threw a cross-body right, and jabbed four fingers into his face.
Crying out, he released his hold on her and covered his stinging eyes.
She straddled his stomach and turned into a schoolyard bully, delivering several left and right crosses to the man’s nose and chin.
Waving his arms, he deflected her next two punches, grabbed her shoulders, tossed her to the right, and went with the motion, ending up on top of her.
Outweighed by a hundred pounds, Stockwell felt most of that poundage pinning her thighs to the floor.
Lead Man planted his left hand on her right breast and cocked his other arm.
She shrugged off his attempt to keep her down, did a stomach crunch, found the bullet wound she had seen him nursing earlier, and jammed two fingers into the hole.
Screwing up his face, he screamed, twisted to his right, and put his same side foot on the floor.
Her left leg now free, the FBI woman kneed him in the groin and punched
him in the Adam’s apple.
He wrapped two hands around his throat and gasped.
Gripping his shirt and throwing all her weight toward her port side, she and Lead Man spun in the same direction until their positions were reversed. She pushed off with her left hand then came down with everything she had, slamming her right elbow into his nose.
Blood spewed out of his nostrils and coated his cheeks.
Grinding her right forearm into his face, Stockwell crawled over Lead Man, bounced onto her knees, and straddled his head and shoulders. She pitched forward, picked up the man’s ‘stove-piped’ pistol, and righted herself while drawing her left hand back along the top of the slide.
The empty brass case holding the slide open flew into the air.
Her arm continuing the clockwise circular motion, she tapped the magazine with her palm, racked the slide, reached behind her, and pressed the trigger twice.
Two bullets entered Lead Man’s chest, and his body went limp.
*******
Jacob ducked under the knife strike.
The steel edge caught the side of his right shoulder.
Wincing, Ow, he dove, slid along the smooth wooden flooring on his belly, scooped up the Glock 19M, corkscrewed left, onto his back, and fired five rounds.
Accomplice clutched his chest, dropped to both knees, and keeled over sideways. The life drained from his body, and his head went limp and hung over the top step leading to the first floor.
Having heard two gunshots on his six o’clock, Jacob flopped over, rose to both knees, and pointed his pistol down the hallway.
*******
Stockwell rotated her torso to the right and aimed her gun down the hallway.
Both agents immediately lowered their weapons.
Jacob: “You good?”
“I’m good. You?”
He frowned at her exposed right breast drooping over her bra, red smears covering skin and fabric. “You’re bleeding.”
She glanced down and hoisted the lingerie’s cup back into place. “It’s not mine.” Noticing a line of red tracing a path down to the crook of his right elbow, she gestured at the squiggly stripe. “What about you?”
Lifting his arm and spying the source of his dull pain, “Unfortunately,” he gave a downward bob of his head, “this...is my blood.”
“Jake.” Stockwell leaped to her feet.
He sent a palm her way. “It’s just a scratch. I promise.”
She hurried toward him.
He stood and met her halfway between the corpses. “A couple bandages should do the trick.” Feeling two drops hit his right foot, he glimpsed where they had landed, whipped out his handkerchief, and pressed the cloth to the gash on his arm. “Okay...maybe three at the most.”
She stooped to set her firearm on the floor, rose, took the handkerchief, “Let me see that,” folded it into a smaller square, and covered his two-inch cut.
Wrapping his left arm around her shoulders, he drew her to himself and kissed the side of her head. “Are you,” he slid his hand up and down her upper arm, “sure you’re okay?”
“Positive.” Stockwell eyed the bodies. “So, who are these guys?”
Jacob reclaimed his handkerchief, ambled to the one he had killed, and pulled off the dead man’s mask.
She did the same to her fallen assailant. “This is one of the goons that confronted us in the diner, earlier...one of the two that stood up the whole time.”
He flung the mask onto his cadaver’s chest. “The other one’s over here.” He tipped his head back, twisted his neck, and received a satisfying ‘pop.’ “Well, we’ve certainly drawn someone’s attention. First, they attack us when we drove out to meet Childress, and now—” Jacob faced his partner.
She leveled her gaze on him. “What? Why are you—”
He ran by her.
“Jake, where are you going?
Returning a few seconds later, his bare feet now in half-laced tactical boots, “Get some clothes on and meet me at the motel,” Jacob pulled on a t-shirt to hide the Coonan on his right hip before holding out her Glock 19M.
“Jake,” Stockwell collected the gun from him, “what—wait,” then ducked into their room, stepped into pants, snatched boots and her tank top, and fled the abode. She hobbled down the hall while sticking feet into her footwear. “Wait up.”
*******
Jacob made it to Childress’ motel room first.
The door was ajar.
The room was dark.
He retrieved a SureFire E1B Backup flashlight from a leg pocket on his pants, married the backs of his hands, and eased open the door with his foot.
Stockwell drew up behind him, her gun in both hands, aimed at the concrete.
Gun and light pointed straight ahead, he slipped into the room and lit up the entire space with 400 lumens.
The room was empty.
He motioned toward the closed bathroom door.
She curled fingers around the knob and faced him.
He nodded.
She pushed open the lightweight door, jumped back, and raised her weapon.
Jacob shined the E1B on a man sitting on the floor, his back against the tub, legs splayed, backs of hands resting next to his thighs, head cocked to his right.
Stockwell made a face at the puncture wounds in Childress’ belly, at his sliced throat, and at the massive amount of blood staining his clothing and the white tile beneath him.
Jacob entered the room, stooped, and put two fingers under the reporter’s chin. Ten seconds later, he backed into the main living area, cursed under his breath, and holstered his 357.
Spying the blood again, Stockwell holstered her Glock, hung her head, and shuffled out into the night air.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 16
Here We Go
2:10 A.M.
It had taken forty-five minutes for sheriff’s deputies to arrive. They had secured the crime scenes, keeping rubberneckers from contaminating evidence. Jacob and Stockwell had meandered around in front of the diner before leaning against their rental car, folding arms over their chests, and crossing ankles.
Fifteen minutes later, the sheriff showed up and had a lengthy conversation with one of his deputies. The underling did most of the talking and a fair amount of finger pointing, some of it aimed at Jacob and Stockwell.
In his early fifties, clad in a tan uniform, a bushy gray mustache matching the hair poking out from under his hat, the heavyset sheriff, and his mid-twenties deputy, strolled toward the out-of-towners.
Jacob pushed away from the Chevy. “Here we go.”
She followed his lead, and the two met the local law enforcement near the left-rear corner of the Suburban, Stockwell on Jacob’s starboard side.
Retrieving a pack of cigarettes and popping one out of the container, the sheriff eyeballed the ‘tourists’ while stowing the pack and producing a silver-colored metal lighter. “So, I have,” he flipped open the top, lit a flame with his thumb, and merged the fire with the cancer stick before closing the lighter and taking a deep drag, “I have two crime scenes, three dead bodies, and,” pinching the filter between his first two fingers, he pointed, “you two right smack dab in the middle. Care to explain?”
Jacob motioned behind him. “We were attacked in our—”
“Actually,” the sheriff slipped the lighter into a shirt pocket, “before we get into that, I’m going to need you both to hand over your firearms.”
Jacob stiffened. “I don’t think so.”
The sheriff half closed an eye. “Now, you’re not going to be difficult, are you?”
“I think I am.”
The baby-faced deputy went for his gun.
Stockwell ‘cleared leather’ first and pointed her Glock at Baby-Face’s nose.
BF froze in place, his fingertips touching the butt of his holstered weapon.
Jacob reached under his shirt with his left hand while pointing at the young lawman.
“Son, I’d advise against that unless you want my partner here to drill you between the eyes.” He lifted his cred pack. “I’m Homeland Security, and she’s FBI.”
The sheriff scowled at the shield a few feet from his face. “Now, what on earth are a couple of feds doing in my jurisdiction? And why,” he dismissed the man on his right with a wave of his hand, “haven’t you notified me of your presence...in my jurisdiction?”
BF clasped hands in front of his body.
“I think we’ve,” Jacob extended his right hand, “gotten off to an uncivilized start, Sheriff. I’m Jacob St. Christopher.”
Stockwell lowered her gun for a second then slowly slid the Glock into its resting place.
The sheriff accepted the offering before shaking hands with Stockwell. “Sheriff Miles Winston.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sheriff Winston.” Jacob leaned sideways against the Chevy on his left and folded arms across his chest. “To answer your question—or questions, in fact—” a beat, “the reason we’re here is a matter of national security. And we were attacked by those hoodlums,” he poked a finger up and behind him, “upstairs...while we were sleeping. We defended ourselves. Then,” he motioned toward the motel, “went over there to find Mr. Childress already dead. Also, there were witnesses who can prove those men confronted us in the diner.”
“Okay,” Winston drew in nicotine and blew out a cloud of smoke, “what’s your connection to the stiff in the motel room?”
Jacob explained as much as he could about the day’s activities, but made it known that he and Stockwell had been attacked at the abandoned factory. And his prime suspects in that incident had been the dead men in the hallway above the diner.
“I’ve,” Winston sucked on the cigarette so hard that the red glow rose a half-inch closer to the filter, “known Hank and Billy since they were youngsters.” He shook his head. “I can’t for the life of me figure them boys to be killers.”
An old truck rumbled up behind the sheriff’s cruiser. Two men got out and stood near the front bumper.
“They’re,” Winston pivoted his upper body to toss a long look in their direction before coming back to Jacob, “they’re good folks them boys.”
