by Dave Stanton
“How many cars is that?” Cody asked.
“I don’t know. It’s a pretty small town.”
“You think they can take these guys down?”
“That’s their job. They’re trained policemen.”
“They got a SWAT team?”
“I doubt it,” I said, staring out the windshield.
A low flying bird rose above our windshield at the last instant. “I could try the FBI,” I said.
“The nearest FBI office is either Vegas or Salt Lake,” Cody said. “By the time they arrive, there’ll be nothing to do but ask stupid questions and clean up the mess.”
I sighed and called the cell number I had for Detective Taylor Humphries, the cop I’d met when I visited the Cedar City police station. When he didn’t answer I called the Cedar City PD main number. After waiting on hold for five minutes, a woman finally came on the line.
“This is a police emergency. Can I speak with an officer?”
“You need to hang up and dial nine-one-one.”
“I’m not in town. Please put a policeman on.”
“Hold, please.”
A minute later a tired male voice said, “Sergeant Wilkens.”
I introduced myself and said, “I was hired by the Jordan family to investigate Jeff Jordan’s murder.”
“Yes?”
“I have reason to believe Melanie Jordan and another woman have been kidnapped by criminals who are driving to the Jordan house now. They should be there within an hour.”
“Who are you, again?”
“Dan Reno, private investigator. Listen, these woman are in danger. The kidnappers are professional criminals, and they’ll kill them both after they get there. They’re driving a black Dodge Charger. Consider them armed and dangerous.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Because I’ve been investigating the case, dammit. Look, if you have questions, call Taylor Humphries, he knows about it. But you need to get squad cars to that house.”
“I’ll call Detective Humphries,” he said.
“You do that. And Sergeant?”
“Yes?”
“Be ready for shooting when you get there. These guys are dead serious.”
“Well, so are we.”
******
By the time we crossed into Arizona, the Dodge Charger was still forty miles ahead of us. They had to be traveling at between ninety and a hundred miles per hour, which was easy to do in the open desert. We raced across the northwest corner of the state, our headlights panning the red rock formations to either side of the road. Cody stayed hard on the gas through a curvy section, the Toyota hugging the corners as if it was on rails. We slowed when a state cruiser pulled onto the freeway, and lost time for five minutes. As soon as the trooper turned off, Cody buried the pedal and we ran wide open for ten straight miles.
We blasted across the Utah state line under a sky dimly lit by a crescent moon. When we reached Saint George, the Charger was still thirty miles ahead of us, which meant they’d arrive at the Jordan house in roughly twenty minutes.
“We’ll never catch them,” I said.
“No shit,” Cody said, his voice flat. “Go to the backseat. Fill the magazine on my autoloader. It holds eight shells.”
I unbuckled my seatbelt and climbed into the back, where Cody’s sawed-off ten gauge lay on the seat. I found the big shells in his bag and fed them into the long magazine beneath the barrel. Then I pulled free my Beretta and made sure the eleven-round magazine was full. My hand moved to my left pocket, where I kept my extra clip. It felt cold and heavy in my palm.
We didn’t speak much after that, as we sped through the night. The highway was smooth and deserted and Cody ran his souped-up Toyota flat out, the speedometer bouncing off 150. I sat still in my seat, jaw clenched, my hands gripping my knees. I thought briefly about Candi and pictured her inside our remodeled family room, curled on the couch with our fuzzy gray cat. Then I thought of Abbey, cocky and irreverent just like her father, but too damn young and inexperienced to know what she was getting into. And then I thought of Melanie and everything she’d been through.
But I didn’t contemplate the three women for very long, because I had more important things to worry about. We were likely heading into a combat situation, one that would probably involve hostages. Distraction could be disastrous. Survival would require a clear mind, heightened senses, and complete focus. And good aim, I reminded myself, touching my automatic. Accurate and quick, without the slightest hesitation.
Cody needed no reminder of combat tactics. As an ex-cop, he’d been involved in many more shootings than me. But I’d had my fair share of experience, and I’d learned that the line between life and death is often a thin one.
We were ten miles outside of Cedar City when the red arrow on my screen showed the Charger moving down the two-mile dirt road leading to the Jordan’s house. It could do no more than thirty miles an hour on that stretch, but we’d be at the same disadvantage.
I watched the screen for a few minutes, until I said, “They’re at the house.”
“What’s our ETA?” Cody said. His massive frame was hunched forward, his face inches from the steering wheel.
“About fifteen minutes.”
When we reached Cedar City, we were forced to slow to navigate through some light traffic. Cody drove at ninety MPH in the left lane and passed on the right and it didn’t take more than two minutes to leave the city lights in the rearview mirror. Then we were out on the desert plains again, and he buried the throttle.
“The turn off is in a couple miles. Better slow down so we don’t miss it,” I said, peering to the right. The thin moon lit the brush fields and the low hills with an eerie glow. We blew by a big rig pulling a double-trailer, the air pressure buffeting the Camry and pushing it toward the center divider. Cody stayed on the accelerator and fought the wheel until we cleared the truck, and then I said, “Less than a mile. Slow down and get ready.”
The shoulder became wider, and up ahead I saw where the dirt and gravel road began.
“Here,” I said.
Cody stomped the brakes and steered onto the shoulder. We slid to a stop, the gravel spraying beneath the tires. Then he popped the clutch, spinning the tires and counter-steering as the back end kicked out.
“Go easy,” I said. “Throw this thing in a ditch, we’re screwed.”
“Grab my sawed-off,” he said.
I reached behind us and grasped the scattergun. The pistol grip was oversize and had been modified to fit Cody’s hands. He was ambidextrous, and could shoot equally well with his right or left.
Cody kept it at thirty, steering carefully around ruts. “Lights off?” he asked.
“Not yet. Keep going.”
When the steel gate was in sight, I saw it was wide open. The house was not yet visible, hidden by the low rise to our right.
“Stop here,” I said. “The house is just over that hill. Let’s go on foot.”
He killed the lights and made a couple of Y-turns, until the Hellfire Hooptie was facing back toward the highway. Then we got out and began hiking through the sagebrush, along the same path that I had walked with Melanie on the day I’d first been on the property. There was more snow now, which would make our dark masses easier to spot once we crested the hill.
I stopped. “Smell that?” I whispered.
Cody came up close behind me. “Smoke,” he said. “Gasoline smoke.”
We continued forward, and then two plumes became visible, rising into the dark sky. It was cold and vapor poured from our mouths. As we neared the crest I said, “Stay low.”
A few more steps took us to the spot where I’d previously found the Pacific brand cigarette butt, and then we reached the vantage point. Crouching, we looked down at the clearing where the Jordans’ big house was built. I blinked hard, trying to assimilate the scene before us. In front of the unlit home were two police cars, or what remained of them. They were both on fire, the hulks torn open and charred black, the
blue and white paint visible only at the bumpers. In one car I could make out two blackened bodies in the front seats. The roof of the other car was collapsed as if crushed by a boulder, making it impossible to see if anyone was inside. But outside the passenger door a uniformed cop lay face down, unmoving and obviously dead.
“Bazooka,” Cody said.
I nodded, then something caught my eye between the house and the barn. The area was shadowed and almost pitch black, but I could make out the shape of a car, and then a second vehicle.
“Down there, next to the barn,” I said. “Probably the Charger, another car too.”
Ducking low, we scampered down the hill, our boots crunching through the snow. The burning cars cast garish patterns of light and shadow against the dark windows and front door of the house. We reached the far side of the corral and walked behind the horse stalls, guns drawn, until we came to the two cars parked aside the barn. One was the Charger, and twenty feet past it I recognized the older Ford sedan that had been parked at the Café Leonov.
“Someone’s in the Ford,” I whispered. The Charger was empty.
We crept behind the Ford, Cody aiming his shotgun. I came around the passenger side, my Berretta trained on the figure in the driver’s seat. I suspected it was Lexi Voronin, who was both the registered owner and the Volkov’s driver. But he also had a long rap sheet and was a suspected murderer. Maybe your night to pay for your sins, I thought, as I saw Cody raise his ten gauge. Then, as I moved forward, I caught a glimpse of the occupant’s profile.
“Christ, it’s Abbey,” I rasped.
Cody rushed to the window, and I looked in from the passenger side. Abbey sat, arms outstretched, her hands zip-tied to the steering wheel. She looked back and forth between us with frantic eyes. I tried the door and looked across the roof at Cody.
“Locked,” I said, watching him pull on the driver’s door. Then he rapped on the window with the barrel of his weapon and motioned with his hand. Abbey turned toward me and ducked her face into her shoulder as Cody broke the window with a loud crunch. He knocked the glass free until the hole was large enough to allow him to open the door.
“Here,” I said, reaching over the roof and handing him the wire cutters I always carried. Cody cut her hands free, then Abbey jumped out of the car and into his arms. He held her closely, her frame huddled in his mass, her head against his chest. I looked away, feeling like an awkward witness to a private moment. Instead I focused my attention on the corner of the house. We were aside it, so I couldn’t see the front door.
“How many of them?” Cody said quietly.
“Four,” Abbey said. “Serj Volkov, Lexi, another Russian, and a black man I’ve never seen.”
“They’ve got Melanie?” I asked.
She nodded. “I think they’re all inside.”
“Abbey, listen—
“Dad, those squad cars were waiting when we got here. Volkov has a grenade launcher. He just stopped and blew them up. One after another, boom, boom. I saw the cops on fire, burning up. I heard their screams.” In the moonlight I could see her cheeks were shiny with tears.
“Now, listen, kid,” Cody said. “You’ve got to hold it together. I need you away from here, and quick. My car’s parked out on the road, over that hill. You run straight that way, it will only take two minutes, and don’t stop for nothing, hear? Take my keys. Drive out to the highway and haul ass to the Cedar City police station. Tell them to send every man they’ve got.”
“And what are you gonna do?”
“Let me worry about that. Now, go!”
Abbey took off at a run, just as I heard a sound. I ran forward until I could see along the front of the house. The front door was open and a man holding an automatic was aiming at where Abbey was running past the corral. I recognized him as the cook from the Café Leonov who tried to disregard us before Cody pistol whipped him. The next instant I dropped into a crouch, arm outstretched, and fired. His gun hand dropped when my first bullet hit him in the gut. His face went slack, his eyes uncomprehending, and he stared at me as if seeking an explanation. He’d die wanting, for my second shot hit him dead center in the chest. He fell forward, then toppled off the porch and lay sprawled in the dirt, staring sightlessly, blood soaking his shirt.
“I bet your cooking sucked, anyways,” I said, walking to the body. Cody came up behind me.
“You killed him, and you still need to insult him?” he asked.
“Must be a personality defect. I’ll work on it.”
We moved to the front door, and I took position against the wall on the near side, and Cody went past me to the far side. “I’ll cover you,” he said, as I peered into the dark, circular foyer.
I went inside, ducking low. To the left was the unfurnished sitting room and further left a hallway accessed the bedrooms. On my right, a short, curved hallway led to the kitchen, and beyond that was the dining room and the family room, where I had found Jeff Jordan’s cell phone wedged in the couch frame.
I could see light from the kitchen spilling onto the tile of the curved hallway. But the kitchen was also accessible through the sitting room, which I felt was a safer approach.
Cody, his shotgun in his left hand and his .357 in his right, followed me as I stepped onto the carpet. My habit is to always stay low in a combat situation, to reduce my target profile. Cody made no such effort. He stood tall, his six-foot-five frame challenging all comers, his weapons at the ready.
A dim light fell onto the carpet from the kitchen archway in the rear of the sitting room. Then a voice called out, “Ilya?”
Cody came alongside me and I pointed toward the light. I crept forward, then stood against the wall and took a quick glance into the kitchen. A single figure stood in front of the refrigerator. It was Lexi Voronin. He wore black jeans and pointy shoes and a white shirt unbuttoned to reveal the dark hair on his chest. In his right hand was a snub nose .32 automatic.
He fired two shots into the wall behind which I stood. One of the rounds blew through the sheetrock above my head and powdered my hair, while the second round must have lodged in a stud. I reached out with my left hand, my body still behind the wall, and rapid-fired three shots. The first shot splatted into the stainless steel door of the refrigerator. The second nicked Voronin’s forearm, as he turned to run out the back of the kitchen. I never knew the exact result of my third, because Cody fired his ten gauge simultaneously, and the buckshot blast hit Voronin in the shoulder and neck, and nearly decapitated him. Voronin bounced off a cabinet and slammed to the floor, his pocket-pistol still clutched in his hand. Blood spread from the twitching body rapidly, puddling and flowing along the indentions between the floor tiles.
“I guess he was outgunned,” I said.
“Poor planning on his part,” Cody replied. “But live and learn.”
“Too late for that.”
I stepped over the dead man and looked into the family room. The lights were on, but it was empty. I took a few steps toward the couch. Then I dove to the ground as a burst of machine gun fire rang out.
“Hey, bitches,” a voice yelled. It wasn’t from the kitchen, but farther out, from the front room. I rolled to my feet and returned to the kitchen, where Cody knelt. He pointed his pistol at the archway. We could only see a slim portion of the sitting room from our position.
“You want a shootout? No problem, but I got your pretty girl with me.” Another burst clattered, and holes appeared in the cabinets over the stove, the wood splintering. Two rounds came through the archway into the center of the kitchen. One shattered a ceramic jar on the counter above me, and the other pinged off the barrel of Cody’s shotgun.
Cody scrambled back to where I crouched. “I’ll go around from the front door,” he whispered. “Distract him.”
I grabbed his arm. “Don’t kill him,” I said. Cody nodded, then went out the opposite end of the kitchen and turned down the circular hall that led to the foyer. I crept forward until I was at the base of the arch.
; “Hey, Serj, take it easy,” I said, risking a peek into the sitting room. He stood at the far end, near the hallway to the bedrooms. He held Melanie in front of him, using her body as a shield. In his free hand he held a submachine gun, an HK model with a distinctive 9mm banana clip.
Serj Volkov smiled when he saw me and raised his weapon. But the black man standing behind him in the hallway was not smiling. The grimace on his face was one of pain and anger, and when our eyes met, his smoldered with hatred. He tilted the machete from where it rested against his shoulder and made a hacking motion.
“Don’t hurt her, Serj. If you do, you’ll never get what you came for.”
Serj Volkov pointed his HK and let loose another blast as I dropped to the floor. He aimed low, spraying the kitchen. One of his bullets knocked a piece of rubber off my boot sole, and two slugs plowed into the bloody mess that remained of Lexi Voronin. Then I heard him stitch the walls of the sitting room, shattering the front window.
“You got me, Serj. I give up,” I yelled, right before I heard the deep boom of Cody’s .357, followed by a shout and a scream. I jumped to my feet and ran through the archway, expecting to see Volkov down. I was hoping to draw on the African and make him surrender. But the African was nowhere in sight, and Volkov was still on his feet, despite a bleeding wound in the meat of his thigh. He staggered to the side, his pants leg soaked red, while Melanie broke free, ran into the hall, and disappeared into a door on the right.
Volkov’s face was balled in a mask of agony. His skin on his forehead was bunched and his crew cut hair nearly touched his eyebrows. He tried to raise his weapon, but lost his balance and toppled over. As he fell, I shot at where his right hand grasped the HK. His thumb vanished in a burst of red, and the submachine gun fell to the carpet.
“Keep him alive,” I said to Cody, as he came forward, his pistol smoking. He holstered his revolver, released the clip from the HK, and stood frowning over Volkov.
“No guarantees. I think he might bleed out.”
“Use his belt as a tourniquet,” I said. Then I looked again and said, “You’re hit.” Cody’s dark jacket was wet on the right side, and I saw a tear in the material between his neck and shoulder.
