Committed

by E. H. Reinhard

  “Go up to your what?” I asked.

  “Cottage that I own with a couple friends,” he answered. “Well, more house than cottage. If they wanted to go to somewhere off the beaten path, they’d go up to my property in Babb. Three-hundred-plus acres on the border. Shit. She’s even been there before. A bunch of times, actually.”

  “McCoy knows where this is? Would she remember how to get there?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” Gormon said.

  “Address,” I said, pulling my notepad from my pocket.

  Gormon gave it to me and told me the property was owned by him and two friends under a trust. The location was on a reservation, which presented another problem.

  “How far is this place from here?” I asked.

  “About a two-and-a-half-hour drive,” he said.

  “Agent Kronke, do you mind sitting with him here for a second?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said.

  I grabbed Beth and the lieutenant and stepped out onto the patio.

  “What do we think?” I asked.

  I got a shrug from the lieutenant.

  “We don’t know if A, they are coming here or B, they are going up to this cottage on the border,” Beth said. “She was either calling to see if he was going to be home—”

  I interrupted. “Or calling to make sure he wasn’t going to be up there.” I looked at Lieutenant Whishaw. “What’s it like up there? Any kind of law enforcement presence that we could have go and check the place out?”

  “Middle of nowhere, really,” Lieutenant Whishaw said. “The reservation is going to have their own police force. Do you have that address he gave you?”

  “Yeah.” I pulled my notepad from my pocket and flipped to the page.

  “Let me go to my car and make the call. I’ll get someone to go and check it out.”

  “Try to get in touch with some kind of border patrol that covers that specific area and give them a heads-up,” I said.

  “Will do,” he said.

  I ripped the page from the notebook and passed it over. The lieutenant walked down the steps to the ground level and disappeared around the corner.

  “Well, now what?” I asked. “Sit and wait to see if these two show up? Take a two-and-a-half-hour drive to do the same thing?”

  Beth rocked her head from side to side. “Let me give Scott and Bill a ring and see if they’ve got any new news this morning.” Beth pulled her phone from her pocket.

  “I’m going to head back inside and see if I can get anything else helpful from our guy.”

  Beth nodded and took a seat at the table on the patio.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Nick stayed low and jogged up the street toward the home’s driveway, his gun hanging from his hand. Molly followed at his back. He entered Red’s property before reaching the driveway and stopped behind a couple small bushes a hundred feet from the house.

  Molly stopped at his side.

  Nick stared around the corner of the bushes at the cop car and truck. He looked up at the house for anyone moving in the windows but saw no one.

  “Why don’t we just wait until the cop and whoever else is here leaves?” Molly asked.

  Nick was in thought and didn’t respond.

  “Nick, come on.” Molly tugged at his sleeve. “This is a bad idea. Let’s just wait.”

  “We’re not waiting.”

  “Nick, this is crazy. You’re trying to go into a house with who knows how many cops in it. You fire a single shot, and we’re done. If we don’t get shot by someone inside, we’ll have who knows how many more cops to deal with as soon as anyone hears gunfire.”

  “If your head isn’t in this, then go sit in the truck. I don’t need to worry about you when this is going down.”

  “When what is going down? What is your plan here?”

  Nick remained silent.

  “This is suicide—one way or another. Do you want this all to end here for no reason?” Molly stuffed her pistol into her waistline and grabbed Nick by the shoulders. She turned him toward her. “Baby, I’m taking a stand here. If you don’t come back with me to the truck, you’re on your own.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “That means I’m leaving. I have no intentions of dying today.”

  “How do you suppose you’re going to leave me without the truck keys?” Nick patted the pocket on his jeans.

  “I’ll walk. I don’t care. If you love me, you’ll come with me and get out of here before it’s too late.”

  “And if you love me, you’ll stay by my side, and we’ll handle this,” Nick said.

  “Going into a house full of cops was never our plan. We’ll come back later.”

  “We’re doing this now. We’ll be quick. Everything will be fine.”

  A noise caught Nick’s ear from the driveway. He placed one hand over Molly’s mouth and pointed. Through the bushes, he could see movement at the police car. Nick crouched and tried to get a view through the bush’s branches. Through a tiny opening, he could see a cop getting into the patrol car and closing the door.

  Nick spoke at a whisper. “The cop is in the car. He’s just sitting there, though.”

  Molly pulled at the back of his shirt. “Let’s go.”

  Nick reached back and swatted her hand. “I think I can get the drop on him,” he said. Nick started rounding the bushes.

  “Where are you going?” Molly said in a hard whisper.

  Nick didn’t respond but waved her along. He crouched and moved quickly along the driveway’s edge then stopped at the white Suburban’s rear bumper. The back of the patrol car was just ten feet away. Molly came to his side but said nothing. Nick looked around the side of the truck—the cop was still sitting in his car, entering something into the car’s computer. A shotgun was standing up in the center of the vehicle.

  Nick backed up a few steps and put his mouth to Molly’s ear. “Stay here and cover me,” he said. Nick dropped to his stomach and army crawled his way to the police cruiser’s rear bumper. He brought his legs back underneath himself and crouched. He looked at Molly at the rear of the truck. She stared back at him and then mouthed the words I’m sorry. She turned away, ran through the bushes near the driveway’s edge, and disappeared from view.

  Nick shook his head and positioned himself to attack as soon as the cop stepped from the car. He took his gun in his hand by the barrel. Nick heard the driver’s door of the police car open and then close. He waited a moment and peeked around the rear bumper of the police car. The cop was nearing the corner of the house. Nick stepped out and took a few steps before accelerating to a lunging stride. He brought the pistol up and delivered it to the cop’s forehead as he turned to see who was coming up behind him. The cop stumbled backward into the garage door. Nick delivered another blow to the top of his head and then another that spattered the garage door with blood and sent the cop to his knees. The cop looked at Nick and scrambled for his gun on his hip. Nick kicked the cop’s hand away from his gun and pistol whipped him repeatedly until the cop was motionless on the ground. Nick crouched over the deputy’s body, took his gun, which he jammed into his waistband, and pulled his cuffs from his belt. He rolled the cop onto his stomach and linked up his arms behind his back. Nick dragged him between the truck and the police cruiser and opened the patrol car’s rear door. He caught movement at the front of the white Chevy. Molly stood at the truck’s hood and stared back at him.

  “Come on,” Nick said. “Help me get him into the back.”

  Molly came to Nick’s side. “I couldn’t leave you,” she said. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, baby. Grab his feet.” The two shoved the cop into the cruiser.

  “What if there are more inside?” Molly asked.

  “I’m betting that there are,” Nick said. “What’s this Red look like?”

  “Middle aged. Shorter. Always had a red beard—it’s where he got the nickname.”

  Nick closed the rear door of the patrol car and op
ened the front passenger door. He reached inside and took the deputy’s shotgun. Then he swung the door closed and propped the shotgun up against it. After pulling the cop’s service weapon from his waist, he handed it to Molly. “Round up anyone you see that doesn’t match that description. We’ll kill them quietly if possible. If someone shoots at you, all bets are off.” Nick jerked his chin to the side of the house. “You get the stairs going up on that side. I’ll get the other.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I stood in the kitchen speaking with Agent Kronke and Mr. Gormon.

  “I’m not sure why they would be trying to get to my land, now that I think about it,” Gormon said.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Well, I mean, she’s been there. She’s had to see what they have going on there.”

  I motioned for him to continue.

  “Well, first there is a trench and a fence at the border. Second, I think they have ground sensors or some kind of hidden cameras or something. You step foot over the border, and the damn border patrol will appear out of nowhere. It’s pretty amazing, actually. Like, they honestly just appear. You’d really have to pull some magic to cross undetected.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.

  “Hell, had to be a number of years now. She took up a job with some kind of amusement company—was always gone, and we just kind of stopped talking.”

  “Amusement company?” I asked.

  “Carnivals and fairs. I have no idea where the place was out of, but they operated nationwide.”

  “Name of the company?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  I looked toward the patio door. The lieutenant had been gone for almost ten minutes. We needed to pick up the pace and make sure everything was in order and men were in position, on the chance the suspects were in fact headed to Gormon’s other property.

  Out on the patio, Beth set her phone down on the table. Her body language looked odd. Beth glanced at us inside the house, stood, and walked to the patio door to come back inside. She held her open, empty, hands up. I saw another hand reach out and slide the door open. A woman appeared at Beth’s back and shoved her inside.

  “Kronke,” I said.

  I pulled my weapon and took aim on the woman, immediately realizing it was Molly McCoy. Kronke did the same.

  McCoy, who appeared as if she was recently in a fight, wrapped her left arm around Beth’s neck from behind, brought her pistol up over Beth’s shoulder, and pressed the barrel against her temple. “On your knees, or this bitch gets it.”

  I glanced to my right to see Gormon cower backward into his kitchen for cover.

  “Put the gun down!” I instructed.

  “Not a chance,” McCoy said. “Give us Red, and we’ll leave without anyone getting shot.”

  The word us in her sentence caught my attention. I quickly glanced over my shoulder at the other patio doors. I saw the barrel of a shotgun and then a man square himself to the door. He was bald and maybe six foot—Nick Frane. He brought the gun up to his shoulder in a firing position and aimed into the house at Kronke and me. He reached out with his left hand and tried to slide the glass door open, but it didn’t budge.

  “You.” McCoy stared at Agent Kronke. “Open that door.”

  Kronke didn’t obey. Instead, he turned and took aim on Nick. “He isn’t hitting us through that door before I put a pair in him,” Kronke said quietly.

  I looked back at Beth, who still had her hands up. McCoy’s left arm was around Beth’s throat. Beth’s right hand was only inches from McCoy’s hand with the gun. I stared at Beth’s face. She mouthed three words at Kronke that I couldn’t make out. I kept my sights on what I could see of Molly McCoy hiding behind Beth.

  “You guys have no way out of this,” Beth said.

  “Bitch, you’re the one with the gun to your head,” McCoy said. She looked back at Agent Kronke. “Open that damn door before your bitch cop here is dead.”

  “Take the shot, Kronke,” Beth said.

  “You shoot, I shoot,” McCoy said.

  “Take the damn shot!” Beth yelled. In an instant, Beth’s right hand jammed backward, pushing the barrel from the back of her head.

  I heard a shot from Molly McCoy’s gun, followed by Kronke firing twice and the boom of a shotgun. The sound of shattered glass hitting the floor of the house came before another shot from Kronke as he ran past me toward the patio he’d fired upon.

  I turned back to Beth, who’d spun herself from the choke hold so she faced McCoy. It looked like Beth had control of the weapon. She yanked down on the gun barrel and broke it from McCoy’s grip. Then she delivered an elbow to McCoy’s jaw and shoved her backward. Beth planted a front kick to McCoy’s chest that sent her through the doorway onto her backside on the patio.

  “I got her. Get Frane,” Beth said.

  I ran toward the blown-out patio doors on the far side of the house, hearing a single shotgun blast as I neared them. I took the steps to the ground level as quickly as I could and looked left and right but saw no one. Two gunshots rang out, and I got a bead on their direction. I ran from the side of the house back toward the front and through the bushes along the driveway.

  Agent Kronke sat up in the grass with his weapon pointed back toward the street. I ran to his side and immediately saw blood.

  “Where are you hit?” I asked, crouching next to him.

  Blood was soaking through both pant legs. He planted a hand in the grass and tried to push himself up to his feet.

  “Just stay put,” I said. “I’ll get you some help.”

  “I’ll be fine. He was seventy yards away when he hit me with a little buckshot. He went for the street that way. I tagged him once or twice, at least.”

  “Where’s the lieutenant?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll find him. Go. We’ll catch up,” he said.

  I ran toward the street up ahead, keeping my weapon up and at the ready. Over the sound of my pounding footsteps, I heard a motor fire and tires chirp. The vehicle appeared, a newer gray pickup truck. I reached the road and brought my sights on it. The truck increased speed toward me and veered in my direction. I held my ground and took aim. As soon as the truck got within distance, I fired, putting two through the driver’s side of the windshield, but the truck continued to advance. The passenger-side window was lowered, with something protruding from it. I backed from the edge of the street and continued firing. At twenty yards away, I recognized what was sticking out from the passenger window—the barrel of the shotgun.

  I hit the grass, belly first, as the truck swerved toward me. The boom of the shotgun filled my ears, immediately followed by the sound of buckshot ripping through the bushes behind me. I brought my knees under me and ran back to the road’s edge just after the truck passed. I brought my sights up and put three bullets through the truck’s back glass. The truck swerved but continued. As the truck shrank in the distance, I took aim on a rear tire and unloaded the rest of my magazine. The truck slid around the corner and disappeared from view.

  “Shit!”

  I heard squealing tires down the driveway. I jogged up to the entrance and saw the white Chevy Suburban rocketing through a cloud of smoke, heading in reverse toward me. The truck slid to a stop beside me, the passenger-side window down.

  “Get in!” Beth shouted.

  I pulled the passenger door handle and jumped inside. Beth spun the tires backward out of the driveway and jammed the truck into drive.

  “Where’s Kronke?” I asked.

  Beth yanked the wheel right and slid around the corner. The truck fishtailed before gaining traction and shooting straight ahead.

  “Kronke came back to the house right as I was taking McCoy downstairs. He was going to come meet you at the street with the truck, but then we saw the lieutenant in the back of his car. He said he’d get the lieutenant out and attended to, get McCoy in, and they’d radio for backup.”

  “Attended to?” I asked.

&nb
sp; “Whishaw was attacked.”

  “How bad?” I asked.

  “He was moving in the back of his car, but I don’t know. I saw blood.”

  I didn’t respond.

  Beth slid to a stop at the stop sign at the end of the street. We looked left and right.

  “There.” I pointed up the street to our right.

  About an eighth of a mile away, the pickup truck was weaving between cars where the frontage road went up a hill to the controlled intersection and freeway on ramp.

  “He’s trying to get to the interstate,” I said.

  Beth cranked the wheel right and floored the gas.

  “McCoy is in our custody?” I asked.

  “Cuffed and left with Kronke.”

  I ripped my phone from my pocket and dialed 9-1-1.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the female dispatcher asked.

  “My name is Agent Hank Rawlings, FBI. I’m currently in pursuit of a gray late-model pickup truck. The driver is Nick Frane. He’s wanted for multiple homicides. I need any available law enforcement to my location.”

  Beth weaved back and forth between some slower cars and those turning into businesses off the frontage road on our right. We were gaining ground on the pickup with each passing second. Beth made gratuitous use of the horn as she maneuvered. I kept my eyes on the pickup truck until it disappeared over the crest of the hill the intersection was on.

  “Your location, sir?” she asked.

  “Just a second,” I said.

  Beth held the horn down as we crested the hill and drove around cars waiting for the light to turn green. “I see him.” She floored the gas again.

  I spotted the pickup truck just down the hill, where the on-ramp merged into the interstate. “We’re entering interstate fifteen, heading northbound from”—I glanced to my right and caught the sign for the street the overpass was on—“Vaughn Road. We’re in a white Chevy Suburban, government tags.” Beth gained more ground on the pickup.

  My line of sight shifted from the pickup truck to the other vehicles on the interstate. While I wouldn’t call it “traffic,” there were enough cars to be a potential problem. The truck clung along the shoulder, past where he should have merged. As we got within five or six car lengths, I could see bits and pieces of tire flying from the rear of the pickup.