A Noble Calling

by Rhona Weaver

  “Where is Shepherd?” Win asked. “Where are the hostages?”

  The man looked confused. “The Prophet and one of his men left in the helicopter . . . over an hour ago. He left with a man they called Pedee. He isn’t here. . . .”

  Oh, man! Shepherd’s gotten away!

  The kid kept sputtering. “And those Jewish men . . . we’re waiting for the jet helicopter to come back . . . to take them somewhere. . . . That’s what Brother King said.”

  “That corporate chopper only holds seven people and a pilot, Jeffery! Where do you think that’s gonna leave the hostages? King, or Chandler—that’s his real name—is probably gonna kill them!” He heard shouts and gunfire from inside the guardhouse. He had to get in there and clear those first two rooms. He had to help Luke. “Okay, then—you’re under arrest. Lay still. HRT will be here to help you soon.”

  “I . . . I haven’t done anything wrong. . . . I’m a soldier of the Lord!”

  Win was quickly transferring extra ammo from Jeffery’s gun belt to his own. He made sure the militiaman’s rifle was empty and heaved it toward the open area far out into the yard. He swung his M4 off his back and checked the chamber of the appropriated Glock—one jammed gun was one too many today. He glared down at the wounded man from a crouch. “For Pete’s sake! Ron Chandler’s—uh, Ron King’s guys are nothing but thugs and killers! You better be rethinking your life and know the God you serve! My God doesn’t stand with murderers and thieves!” With that lecture hanging in the air between them, Win lowered his rifle and sprinted toward the door of the guardhouse, praying he was getting there in time.

  * * *

  One of the gunmen who’d been firing from behind the open guardhouse door was no longer a threat. Win’s three left-handed shots with Jeffery’s Glock had struck him square in the face. He was sprawled on his back in the reception area, his head resting in a pool of dark blood. Win kicked the black AR-15 away from the man’s limp hand. He fought the urge to gag, to be sick. He quickly turned away from the lifeless form, and his eyes swept the room for others. He’d caused another death. I’ll deal with it later . . . later.

  He heard a muffled cry for help over the humming of the room’s bright fluorescent lights. The solid door to the ready room was locked. That large, windowless area would be the most logical place to stash hostages. He heard the cry for help again—a voice called out the name Winfred Weinberg. I’ve found them! They’re alive! He heard more shouting and gunfire from somewhere in the building’s rear. I have to save these people first!

  “FBI! Stand back!” Win sent two rounds from the rifle downward into the lock and kicked the door open. He swung his rifle into the doorway and stepped into the brightly lit room. He silently counted ten men in formal wear, tied hand and foot, sitting against the far wall. He heard more gunfire from the rear of the building. I’ve got to hurry! He pulled his knife and cut the zip ties on the ankles and wrists of an older man who was saying he owned the place.

  “Free the others, barricade the door, and stay in this room. Our Hostage Rescue Team will be landing any minute.” Win handed the knife to the man. “I need to get back out there.” He turned and caught an unexpected sight. Several men were prone on the carpet in an adjoining interior office. They too were hog-tied, but none appeared conscious.

  “Are they . . . ?” he began.

  “It’s my high-paid security team!” The older man fairly spat out the words. “No, they’re alive. The robbers drugged them with something, but they’re starting to come out of it. We’ve seen them moving around. One of our security men was in on this. So was my new foreman, Peter.” As he began cutting the others free, the man leveled a harsh question at Win. “What happened to the barbarian who was guarding this door?” The other men were rubbing their wrists and staring at Win.

  “I killed him.”

  “Well done! Well, I’ll get his weapons—I hunt big game, you know. You are retrieving our jewels, I hope. I would think that’s why you are here.”

  Well done? Win flinched. A man was dead on the other side of the door and all this man was concerned about was his diamonds. Win didn’t even want the Good Lord to know the thoughts going through his mind at that moment.

  “Get those other men free and tend to them. There are other gunmen in this building. Stay in this room!” Win retrieved the dead man’s AR-15 and handgun and shoved them into the estate owner’s hands. Several of the men started to offer him their thanks, but he abruptly turned away from the group, slamming the metal door behind him. He wasn’t in the mood to be polite.

  * * *

  The windowless communications room appeared to be deserted, but Win ducked through the door, his weapon at the ready. It was dark as pitch. He ran a hand along the side of the doorframe but couldn’t find the light switch. He paused and stilled his breathing. He didn’t hear a sound from inside the cavernous room except for the low hum of a dozen dark security monitors. He knew there’d been another gunman at the front door when he subdued Jeffery. Where’d that guy go? There was still sporadic gunfire coming from somewhere in the back of the building. Have to make sure this area is clear. That was his assignment from Luke. Can’t let them flank us.

  Watson’s rough building layout had shown a door to the equipment room somewhere in this area. He turned on his Maglite, held it against his rifle, and moved cautiously between two desks. The door had to be near the rear, to his left . . .

  The blow to the back of his head came out of nowhere—everything went completely black. He went down on his knees hard. For a second, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. For some reason he could hear, and for the second time today, he heard Ron Chandler’s gravelly voice. “Should have popped you this morning, boy. Would have saved me some trouble.” Win could picture the evil grin behind the thick voice. He sensed the man behind him, but his limbs wouldn’t obey his commands to move.

  He felt himself sway from the effects of the blow, and he fought to remain upright on his knees in the heavy body armor. As his vision began to clear, he saw a figure move awkwardly into the room twenty feet in front of him. Someone had hit the lights, and Jeffery’s bloody hands, still in handcuffs, were pointing that damn Sig Sauer handgun right at his head.

  The voice behind him was directed at the bleeding gunman. “No need to waste a bullet on him—we need to conserve our ammo. Get with the other boys. We’ve got that traitor Bordeaux cornered in the back room. Our chopper shoulda already been here—it’ll be here anytime.” He laughed that short, evil laugh. “I’m on my way to finish our Jewish problem. This here won’t take a second!”

  Win sensed movement behind him, but he still couldn’t make his arms or legs obey.

  “No, Brother King! I’ve got a score to settle with this Fed!” The guy wasn’t whispering now. He shouted the angry reply. Win’s eyes locked on the pistol. It was shaking as Jeffery tried to balance on one leg.

  It was one of those moments that froze in time. He saw Jeffery lean back into the stark-white wall of the security room; as he did, a twisted pattern of bright-red blood streaked the wall from his bloody coat. Blood was pooling at the bottom of the man’s boots. Win saw him settle the pistol into a solid two-handed grip. The black muzzle seemed to be trained right between his eyes. He saw the militiaman’s ashen face take on a hard look; his blue eyes narrowed, his jaw was set. He saw the flashes of the muzzle. One, two, three . . . damn thing didn’t jam that time! He wondered if he had blinked, if he had flinched. He wasn’t sure.

  Ron Chandler gasped in shocked surprise—“What! What the hell . . .”—and dropped facedown beside him without another word. The heavy shotgun clattered to the floor. Win saw blood and dark hair on the long gun’s wooden stock. A leather satchel dropped beside the shotgun, and the jewels spilled out onto the dark linoleum floor. Dozens of the tiny stones scattered and bounced across the floor in front of him, gleaming and sparkling in
the bright light like, well, like diamonds. This was the loot, their haul—this was what all this senseless bloodshed was about. Who’d said greed was the root of all evil? Win couldn’t remember the paraphrased Scripture.

  Then it was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Jeffery let himself slide down the wall to the floor. He grimaced with pain and dropped the pistol and his cuffed hands onto his lap. “We’re even now. . . .” He sighed and closed his eyes. “You may be right. I hate that you may be right. I just wanted to be part of something good.”

  Win realized he’d somehow staggered to his feet. He moved to Jeffery’s side and eased the 9mm out of the younger man’s shaking hands. Win heard his voice, or at least he thought it was his voice. “Stay here. Help will be here soon. Tend to that leg . . . come out of this alive. Someone needs to . . . to come out of this alive.”

  * * *

  Win found himself back in the main hallway, moving toward the rear of the building. He had to get to Luke. He still had the assault rifle in his hands, but he didn’t remember picking it up. He pulled the bolt back quickly and released it to clear a cartridge and chamber another round—he didn’t remember how many rounds he had remaining. There was a low roaring in his ears. Maybe the helicopter Chandler had mentioned? Maybe HRT? Maybe the blow to his head? A bullet thudded into the wall beside him as he eased around an open doorway. Before he could react, a strong hand pushed him to the side and someone sent three quick shots back into the open office. Who’s beside me? Who’s firing? Win heard himself call out, “FBI! Drop your weapon!”

  “Don’t shoot! It’s down! It’s down!” a shaky voice responded from inside the open door.

  The man beside Win was yelling commands at the bad guy, “Hands up—completely up! Turn around! Get on your knees!”

  Win fumbled for a set of zip ties from a pocket and handed them off.

  “Seen them do this on TV,” the very capable bald guy in the tux was saying as he cuffed the man wearing an Amertec Security Company uniform. He pulled the bad guy’s handgun, kicked the rifle across the room, lowered his pistol, and turned his head back to Win. “Hi, Aaron Weinberg. Thanks for what you’re doing here. They were going to kill us—and film it! Sorry my dad was such a . . . well, he can be . . .” He shook his head.

  “Met your mom too.”

  The man raised his eyebrows and grimaced. “Ouch! And you stayed to help us?”

  Win grinned a little. “God doesn’t let us choose our relatives.”

  The sharp crack of gunfire from somewhere in the rear of the building got Win’s attention. The man in formal wear was still talking. “Big helicopters landing, we could hear them. Two of your guys were getting us out of the building through the front. They said everyone else was okay. That’s why I came back here. Thought you might need some help.”

  Win tried to focus. “Appreciate that. . . . Uh, you stay and cover this guy. I’m going to the equipment room. Uh, lose the gun before our guys get in here, okay?”

  He turned out the door to move on down the hallway. He heard the man call after him, “Do you know you’re bleeding? Do you know you’re hit? Hey . . .” The sounds were fading in and out for some reason. He kept moving down the long hall.

  Luke Bordeaux was pinned down in the front of the building’s big equipment room and running out of options when Win appeared from a side door. Win heard Bobby Thayer yell “Ranger coming in!” just before a half dozen rounds slammed into the door he’d just walked through. Win threw himself behind a stout wooden worktable and flipped it on its side. He sent two bursts back toward the far side of the big room, more to make his presence felt than to hit anything. It occurred to him that he had to stop firing and locate Luke or he was liable to end up hitting his own man. He tried to take a deep breath, and it startled him when he realized he couldn’t . . . he couldn’t catch his breath.

  “Comin’ to you.” Win heard those words and recognized Luke’s Louisiana accent.

  “Come ahead.” He heard his own voice softly reply.

  Luke slithered like a snake across the short expanse of concrete floor between them and drew himself up behind the heavy table. “Damn glad to see you.” He was slipping another fifteen-round magazine into his Beretta; he was down to his backup handgun. “Got Red, Bobby Thayer, and one of those white supremacy boys in here—it’s damn crowded. We’re between them and the loot—apparently Brother King has it.” He stole a glance around the table. “What took you so long?”

  “Been a little busy. . . . A few of their men are down, including King, uh, Chandler. Hostages are free, and guards were just drugged—I think they’re all okay. I can go home now . . .” What? What did I just say? Win paused and blinked a couple of times. It was odd—he still couldn’t catch his breath.

  Luke’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at him. “Have you checked your magazine?” He tried another quick look around the table. Two rounds came in and took chunks of wood off the top of their barricade. Luke was giving orders. “Got to go for head shots, some of them are wearing level 3 body armor. Are you okay? Win? Are you hearing me?” Luke slapped him hard across the face. “Roll!”

  Win snapped out of it long enough to roll and fire the rifle. He saw the large, black-headed man he was aiming at stumble forward and drop a pistol. The man grabbed for the steering wheel of a big riding lawnmower and slumped across it. The front of his camouflage jacket was shredded from Win’s three-round burst. Maybe the body armor had saved him. Maybe . . .

  Win caught a glimpse of the redhead, still in the security guard uniform, lunge between two tables. He was firing an AR-15 and shouting something at someone, but Win didn’t know what. The redhead dipped down below a metal bench covered with tools. Luke was still behind the wooden table, but he was standing now, firing back at someone—Win could see the flashes of the muzzles. The booming sounds of the rapid pistol and rifle fire echoed off every surface in the prefabricated metal room. It was too loud to think, even if Win had been capable of thinking. Across the room, a man in camouflage dropped backward. The man was still firing an assault rifle, but he was falling and it was firing wildly into the ceiling. The red flashes from that muzzle formed a bright halo above a camo cap that was flying through the air. Luke had hit him with a headshot. Win could see blood, lots and lots of blood.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the redhead moving toward them. The man rose and fired toward Luke before Win could swing his rifle up. As Win lay on the floor, he pointed and pulled the trigger, held down the trigger, but couldn’t tell if he’d fired. . . . It had all gone real quiet. He needed to get to his feet, but he was floating again. He saw Luke stagger backward and grab for the wooden table with his free hand. He was firing the Beretta back across his body with his right hand. Win saw the redhead’s rifle let loose another long burst. That man was almost on top of him. Why am I not hearing the sound? Then the redhead seemed to freeze. The evil smirk on his face froze in place. . . . A dark spot had appeared above his vacant eyes. He pitched forward and didn’t move.

  Win tried to get up on all fours, but it wasn’t happening. He still couldn’t get his breath, and just when he was beginning to realize that could be a big problem, he felt a wonderful peacefulness come over him—he was floating above the room. There was bright-white light. The brightest light he could imagine—the deepest peace he could conceive. It was moving toward him . . . or he was moving toward it. . . .

  Then he saw Luke’s prone figure on the concrete floor, and the tape covering Luke’s wrist. The man had cut his own wrist to save him this morning. He saw Luke try to raise his head. I need to help him! He forced himself back; the glorious light began to recede. I’ll just be a minute, he thought. I need to tend to Luke—he gave me another day. I’ll just be a minute.

  Win couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten up. He stood over the redhead and had enough awareness to kick the rifle away. But there wasn’t really any nee
d to secure that gun. He forced his eyes not to see the gaping exit wound the 9mm bullet had left in the back of the man’s head. He realized he could hear again. He moved slowly to Luke’s side and knelt down. Luke was alive. He reached up and grabbed the back of Win’s collar.

  “The vest saved me . . . I’m . . . I’m just down from the shock of the rounds hittin’ it.” He spit up a little blood and his dark eyes widened slightly. His words became more breathy. “Then again, maybe I’m wrong ’bout that.” His bloody right hand fell away from Win’s collar and his eyes focused sharply on Win’s face. “He got ya from behind. . . . What’d I tell you . . . situational awareness. . . . You’re gonna have to work on that . . . some more.”

  Win tried to pull open Luke’s heavy camo jacket to expose the light body armor, but his hands weren’t steady and every movement seemed to be in slow motion. This body armor wouldn’t stop 5.56mm bullets—something in his mind registered that fact. The wounds were below the left shoulder, and he pressed down hard with the corner of the jacket he’d pulled free. Luke choked a little and spit up some more. God help me! There’s so much blood.

  “I kept my promise to you! I took care of Ellie and the kids. You have too much to live for—don’t go!” He heard himself saying those words at the same time he felt himself slipping away again. He kept pushing on the seeping wounds, but realized he wasn’t feeling his hands anymore.