by Darrell Case
Allison was surprised to see Samuel's, and not pleasantly. He advised her hurriedly of the transport order and kept the departure preparations moving briskly. Allison barely had a chance to think, let alone question or protest. Fully aware they would make an attempt on her life, she had expected it to be someone inside the jail. If Samuels was the assassin or if she was being set up as sniper quarry, her strategy would have to change.
Samuels clamped the handcuffs loosely on Allison's wrists. He put his hand on her shoulder, and guided her down the hallway. His touch made her cringe. This man killed Van Rudolf.
He kept her near the far wall as they passed by the catcalls and whistles. She stood silently as he signed the necessary forms.
Being walked out of the jail by Samuels was like being led to the death chamber by a benign executer. Allison knew full that unless she kept her wits about her she had less than an hour to live.
They approached Samuels black Crown Victoria. He opened the passenger side door, backed up and gestured to her to get in. This was a clear violation. Prisoners sat in back so they couldn't overpower the driver. Bewildered, Allison hesitated. He leaned in close to her and whispered. “I'm here to help you escape.” She stared at him incredulously.
He grinned at her. His eyes told a different story. He was here to make sure she never testified.
She smiled back at him. “Thank you,” she said keeping up the pretense. She had never put stock in conspiracy theorie, yet she was sure Steel was in on this. How far up the ladder did it go? She had pried open a lid and the snake inside was about to strike.
In 20 minutes, they were moving fast along interstate 70. moving fast. Samuels engaged the lights but no siren. The order was to drop her at the edge of the woods on County Road 1250.
He was glad he wouldn't have to do the killing. He thought shooting Jack would be enjoyable. It wasn't.
Several nights he had awoken in a cold sweat from a recurring dream. In his dreams, he saw Jack's dead body come to life. He kept pumping bullets into the corpse to no avail. When the rifle clicked empty, he used it as a club. He swung the gun, its polished stock connecting with the rotting carcass. The bank robber’s head flew off. It hit the ground and grinned up at the marshal. Samuels would wake up in a cold sweat feeling skeletal hands closing on his neck.
Each time after waking from the dream he would ease out of bed so as not to disturb his wife, step into the bathroom and examine his neck in the mirror. Were those fading red marks or was it his imagination?
On one of those nights he went downstairs and made a cup of instant coffee. Staring through the kitchen window into the Going down stairs, he made a cup of instant coffee. Staring out the kitchen window into the hazy pre-dawn light, his heart skipped a beat. Was that Jack staring back at him? Then he relaxed. It was just his own refection.
This was the end. His last assignment. If they wanted more killing done they would have to find someone else. He was through.
Samuels exited the interstate and drove down S R 231, then turned left onto County Road 1250 N. “I'll let you out up ahead,” he said. There was that smile again.
Allison tensed. She leaned slightly forward and dropped her cuffed hands between her knees. Slowly, oryaing he wouldn’t notice any wriggling, she worked her right wrist out of the cuffs.
“I don't feel well,” she moaned, laying her head on her knees. “I think I'm going to throw up.”
She let out a dry retching sound.
“Ah man, not all over my car.” He steered to the edge of the gravel road. The last thing he needed was for his son to ride in a car smelling of vomit.
Putting it in park, he turned to look at her. She came up fast, smashing him in the face full force. His head snapped back and bounced off the window. Momentarily stunned, he shook his head. His eyes focused. He looked down the barrel of his own pistol.
“Out of the car now!,” Allison shouted. Her voice exploded in the enclosed space.
“Easy, don't do anything stupid,” Samuels said, raising his hands. “Just let me take you up the road and I'll let you out. There's a forest up there that comes right up to the road.”
“Into the sights of the assassin?” She saw the truth written on his face. “I don't think so.”
“Look you'll never get away out in the open like this. Let me help you,” Samuels said sweat beading on his forehead. What would they do if he didn't deliver the package? He didn't want to find out.
The first bullet shattered the windshield. Alison ducked down using the dash for cover. Shards of glass showered her back and head imbedding in her hair. The shooter was hidden at the right front of the car. Samuels threw open his door and tumbled onto the ground. He rolled over and over until he was clear.
Jumping to his feet, he shouted, “Get her! Get her! Don't let her get away.”
With lightning speed Allison slid across the seat to the driver’s side. She quickly searched found the motorized button that moved the seat back and pressed it. Even moving it back gave her little room to maneuver. She pulled the key from the ignition. Using the key on the ring, she unlocked the cuffs and shook them off. Federal officers kept their extra firearms in the trunk. She keyed the icon on the fob.
The trunk sprang open; several bullets pinged off its surface.
With the driver's side door as cover, Allison sprawled to the ground. Bullets peppered the car, blowing out the right front and rear tires. Trying to escape the line of fire, Samuels had leaped into the roadside ditch. Alison dismissed him as a non-threat. Moving slowly she worked her way to the back of the car. Several bullets blew rock dust in her face.
Staying low, she reached into the trunk. Just as she suspected, Samuels had a small arsenal. There were two rifles and a shotgun. She shoved a magazine into the Remington and returned fire.
She swiveled her head looking for the best way to run. The ground rose to the north and lay low to the south. A quarter mile to the east sat a burned out farmhouse. Too far, too much, open ground.
There was movement to her left. Samuels, his head and right arm exposed, aimed a pistol at her. She rolled over on her back and raised the Remington She squeezed the trigger, firing over his head. He ducked and fired. The bullet struck the car three inches above her head. Gas spurted out onto the gravel. The rapidly expanding pool spread toward her. She would have to get away from it. She had seconds to decide where to go.
Allison brought her rifle lower aiming at Samuels head. She hesitated reluctant to shoot a law enforcement officer, even one as corrupt as Samuels.
She suddenly realized the firing from the south had stopped. The assassin was on the move. He was coming after her or moving into a better position. Samuels stood up and stepped into the road.
“Couldn't you just die quietly? Why did you have to complicate things?”
The Glock bucked in his hand. Alison threw herself to the side. She felt the wind from the bullet as it whined past her ear.
He was going to kill her. She had no choice. It was kill or be killed. She aimed at his heart.
A shot rang out Samuels fell to his knees and looked at her stupidly. He tried to raise the gun. Another shot echoed. A hole appeared in the marshal's forehead. His body rocked backward and came to rest with the heels of his shoes touching the back of his head, or what was left of it. They had killed Samuels, their own man. What would their enforcer do to her? She put it out of her mind.
Allison crawled out of the way of the pool of gas, flattened and waited. She lay still and noiseless on her belly. If the shooter thought she was dead, he might expose himself. One minute, two minutes.
She started to panic. A dead marshal, an escaped prisoner. Her prints were all over these weapons. No way would
anyone believe it was a set-up. They intended for Samuels to die, either by her hand or the assassin’s. they’d make it look like a shoot-out between her and the marshal. Arrange the scene before the cops showed up. She wouldn't believe it if it hadn't happened to her.
Three minutes. Allison shifted and started to rise. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Instantly she assumed a death pose. A figure in full camouflage gear, his face painted green, emerged from the weeds to the left. Why hadn’t she seen him cross the road? She had no answer. She watched his feet. He wore heavy combat boots made for jungle fighting.
Seventy, sixty, fifty feet. He stopped. Something caused him to pause. Could he see her breathing? She held her breath, willing her body not to move. She looked up. The rifle in his hands swung loose, its muzzle pointing toward the ground. It was now or never. If she hesitated, she would die. Under her abdomen, she gripped Samuels Glock. Tensing herself in anticipation of a barrage of gunfire, she leaped to her feet.
Bringing up the pistol, she fired, hitting him square in the chest. He fell on his back, his body armor taking the impact.
Instinctively his finger tightened on the trigger. Bits of gravel peppered the side of the car and flew into Allison's face, momentarily blinding her. Blood oozed from a dozen cuts on her face, forearms and hands. Steeling herself, she fired multiple rounds at him. All but one bullet passed harmlessly over him. As he started to rise, one struck him; piercing the palm of his right hand.
On her feet, Allison shoved another clip into the Glock. Sirens blared in the distance. Shifting the rifle to his left hand, the assassin regained his footing.
Alison's time had run out. Reaching into the trunk she grabbed a rifle and a box of ammunition. She ducked behind the car, and then sprinted for cover in the ditch. Expecting a bullet in the back, fear forced an adrenaline rush through her body, propelling her feet like rockets. The pounding of her heart matched the beating of her feet.
She was a fugitive, a criminal on the run from one murder charge, now two. They would consider her armed and dangerous. If they found her, she would die. Breathing hard, she slashed her way across a stream, up a small hill and into a cornfield. The corn was only waist high. From the air, she would be exposed like a black bug on a white rug. She had to find cover. Within minutes, they would call in air support.
Bursting out of the field, she raced across a meadow. The sirens were converging on the road behind her. She had to get out of sight. But where? There wasn’t a house or building in view.
His hand was on fire. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage. He had to abort the mission. Let the cops do their job. When she was back in custody, he would sneak into the jail and kill her. And he would make her suffer for the pain she caused him.
Wiping the blood from the stock of the rifle, he laid it in the weeds. Not looking back, he drifted away. His getaway plan was flawless. The challenge now was to disguise his injured hand but he’d find a way. By the time, he reached the Taurus he had stripped off his body armor and the rest of his battle gear.
Now he was a one- armed Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman.
He had just made his first sale when the cop car pulled up to the farmhouse. The housewife was horrified. A federal officer murdered only a few miles away and a killer on the loose? She quickly canceled her order and locked the door behind. The deputy cautioned him to be careful and to inform them if he saw anything out of the ordinary. He assured him he would.
Back in the car, he smiled, and then broke into laughter. If that farmer’s wife only knew she’d had a killer standing not three feet away right there in her living room.
Chapter 23
