CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bunker followed Daisy through the gate. She took a position behind a rock formation on the left. He chose one to the right, peering around the manmade mound while keeping his profile thin.
He looked over at Daisy just as she brought her head around after taking a peek herself. She flashed a hand signal, telling him they were going to move ahead.
Bunker waited until her feet moved, then slid out from behind the cover. He kept low as the two of them worked their way to the pair of rock heaps closest to the barn.
All was quiet, but Bunker knew the gunman was still there, waiting for them with several rounds at the ready. If the perpetrator had military training, they might be advancing into a trap.
He needed to dig deep and remember all the training he received at Camp Pendleton under the dutiful tutelage of the short in stature but lethal Sergeant Haskins.
It was back during the part of his life when he thought he knew how the world worked. When it still had honor. Still had meaning. He was straight out of high school at the time, wide-eyed and ready to serve Mother Liberty.
He still remembered how proud he felt when he signed up: his conviction was strong, feeding his desire to walk in the steps of all those brave souls who came before him. His life plan was simple back then—do his part for God and country. Then go to college on Uncle Sam’s dime.
Bunker wasn’t sure why his mind was thinking about all of this right now, but it was and he couldn’t seem to shake it. Before his next breath, a wave of dizziness hit him, making his legs buckle. He landed on his knees and fell forward, ramming his forehead into the rocks stacked up before him.
His breathing ran shallow and his eyes started to ache, forcing him to slam them shut. A series of images tore into his mind, all bloody. Even though they were only momentary glimpses, he knew what they represented—a sequence of events from long ago.
His chest tightened, squeezing his heart just like it had during his final deployment. The crushing pain from years past was now raging in his chest with thunder.
A dozen or so breaths later, the rapid-fire images began to slow before they came to a full stop—much like an old jukebox spinning through a flurry of titles until it found the one it wanted to play.
He’d been through this process before and knew what was about to happen. It was time to relive one of the most painful moments of his life, a moment that changed who he was at the cellular level.
As expected, the vision changed. He was now standing over the bodies of the fallen, the corpses in pieces and stacked up like sandbags in front of a mile-long poppy field, deep inside the Afghan desert. He remembered the scene like it was yesterday. It was the exact moment when he—
“Bunker!” Daisy said in a sharp whisper. “You still with me?”
Bunker snapped out of his flashback. His chest was still on fire and his breathing rapid. Pushing through it wasn’t easy, but he managed to regain control just as the last haunting image vanished from memory.
He swallowed hard, then opened his eyes. He looked at Daisy, feeling the drip of sweat on his cheeks. “Yeah, I’m still here.”
“Good, ‘cause whatever that was—”
“—I know. It hasn’t happened for a long time. Not sure why now, but it’s over.”
“Thank God,” she answered, waiting a bit before speaking again. “I need to get in there and arrest the shooter, but I can’t do that if you’re somewhere else. You gotta keep it together.”
She was right. He needed to shake the after-effects and focus on the task at hand. His legs still felt like rubber, but he was confident he could do what needed to be done. “I’m good. Trust me.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, looking hesitant.
“I’m good to go,” he said with more conviction.
Her uneasiness seemed to fade. “I’m gonna move to the corner of the house first, then to the front door. I need you to cover me and follow me inside. We go on three. Ready?”
He shook his head in disagreement, still feeling a light dizziness swirling inside. “With all due respect, Daisy, going in hot is a mistake. A fatal one at that. It’s just the two of us, with only pistols. We don’t know where the shooter is and it’s pitch black in there. Plus, we don’t know the layout.”
“Well, first of all, I do know the layout. Inside the door is his living room, which connects to the kitchen and bedrooms. It’s probably covered in stacks of old newspapers and ashtrays filled with cigar butts. Second, it may be dark but we do have a flashlight. Third, I can’t let this man get away. It’s my duty to take him into custody.”
“I get all that, but entering a door at night with a flashlight will get us killed. My fire team leader drilled it into us during our tactical training sessions: doorways are the Fatal Funnel—the most dangerous position during an assault. And the flashlight is the last thing we want to use. The shooter will aim for it first. Plus, we don’t have any body armor or sufficient manpower to make an effective breach. Now, if we had a complete assault team with night vision goggles, flashbangs, and ARs, we might have a chance. But right now, we’re at a complete disadvantage. It would be a suicide mission.”
“Okay then, Mr. Military, what do you suggest?”
Bunker took a few seconds to consider the options. They needed to draw the shooter out and control the risk, but the tools and resources at his disposal were limited. Improvisation was needed.
His mind turned to something Daisy had just said about cigar butts and ashtrays. When he looked at all the junk in Tuttle’s yard, it gave him an idea. It was a long shot, but worth a try. “I’ve got an idea. You stay here and cover me.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t have time to explain, so just listen.” Bunker pointed at the closest window of Tuttle’s trailer. “When you see the shooter peek through those blinds, empty the magazine at him. Start high and work your way low. We’ll only get one chance at this, so don’t miss.”
She looked a little confused, but nodded anyway. “I won’t. Was second in my class.”
He was pleased to hear she was near the top of her class in marksmanship, given he was about to put his ass on the line. Yet he couldn’t help driving home one more point to the country cop. “Whatever you do, don’t turn that flashlight on. It’ll give away your position.”
Her eyes were in agreement as she put a soft hand on his shoulder. “Be careful out there.”
“I plan to,” Bunker said, checking the front of the house again. It looked clear. He took off for the closest Ford truck, angling his path to take him to the driver’s door. He opened it and climbed into the driver’s seat.
A quick check of the interior didn’t turn up much except empty beer cans, a sweat-stained bandana, chewed toothpicks, and some wadded-up aluminum foil lying on the floorboard in front of the passenger seat. There was also a Colorado Rockies baseball cap with a salt lick growing around the brim and pair of work gloves with gaping holes in the palms.
He pulled the ashtray out and found a supply of ashes and two cigar butts sitting in its reservoir. The clues were obvious: Tuttle spent time in this truck, enjoying beer and smoking. Probably after working in the yard, which would explain the gloves, cap, and stained bandana.
Bunker imagined the old man sitting where he was now, laughing at his nosy neighbor across the street, all the while chugging down a few cold ones and belching between smoke rings as he puffed on a cigar. He wasn’t sure what the foil wrappers were from—Ding Dongs, maybe?
Bunker leaned over and opened the glove box. Inside he found an old pipe, a zippered pouch of dry tobacco, and a book of matches that said Billy’s Pump and Munch on the cover. He opened the matches and found four virgin sticks inside. Bingo. Just what he hoped he’d find.
He slid the matchbook into the front pocket of his jeans, then grabbed the bandana and one of the beer cans before slinking his way out of the truck. He’d planned to cut away sections of the seat covering to use as a flammable mater
ial, but scoring the old bandana saved him a step.
Once on the ground, he stuffed the do-rag into his back pocket, then took out his knife and used the tip to enlarge the opening on top of the beer can.
So far, so good, he thought. Now he just needed gasoline.
He crawled under the pickup and went in search of the fuel line, starting at the rear of the vehicle. He felt around the tank until his fingers came upon a hose. Bunker followed it down and around to a clamp. A few inches later, he landed on a grommet and clip holding the rubber tube to the frame.
Now that he’d found the low point, he needed to sever the supply. However, his body was directly under the gas line, so he repositioned himself for better access. With the beer can under the hose, he cut the tube in half with his knife, then waited. Nothing came out. Damn it. The tank must have been empty.
He sighed, realizing his plan wasn’t going to work. Not without a supply of gas. Bunker thought about checking the other trucks for fuel, but they weren’t in the proper position for his targeted diversion to succeed. He’d have to transport the gas from one truck to the other, and that was going to take too much time. Plus, he didn’t have a hauling container.
Before he could decide what to do, a new thought arrived.
Maybe the tank in the first truck wasn’t empty.
Since the vehicle was old and stationary, the gas might’ve broken down and gummed up the fuel line. He tapped the butt end of his knife on the underside of the tank. The sound was deep and solid, not a hollow ping like he expected. There was fuel. He tapped farther up the side. Same sound. Plenty of gas.
Bunker cut away another section of the fuel line. But again, no fuel ran out. He tried slicing a third section, this time as close to the tank as he could reach, but still nothing. The facts led him to only one conclusion: the blockage was inside the tank.
He opened the pickup’s gas cap and leaned in to take a whiff. The odor wasn’t what he expected. It smelled sour, like varnish. He was right. The gas had gummed up.
That meant a Molotov cocktail might not work since the fumes inside the tank wouldn’t be potent. He figured the gas would still burn, but not without a high-octane ignition source to jump-start the chain reaction needed to cause an explosion.
Just when he thought his diversion plan was doomed, he remembered something from earlier: the red lawnmower. It looked to be a lot newer than the rest of the clutter in the yard. It might have gas in it—fresh gas—a more combustible ignition source.
Unfortunately, the mower was sitting in front of the vehicles and he’d have to expose himself to the shooter at close range. He needed better cover. Or a shield of some kind.
Then it hit him—Tuttle’s old signs: they were made of metal.
Bunker put the beer can on the ground and crawled past the second truck. He continued to the back of the third truck, stopping to survey the sign graveyard.
Most of them were too big to carry or were the wrong shape to help him. But there was one he thought he could use—a faded red stop sign, about three feet tall and just as wide. It had two dark spots along the upper left edge. Dirt or rust? He couldn’t be sure, not without better light.
Regardless, the idea had potential. Antique roadway signs were made of steel and thicker than the more modern composite aluminum. Better protection. Plus, the stop sign was small enough to maneuver around by hand. He’d have to stay low and keep the shield at a deflecting angle. Of course, if the shooter had armor piercing rounds, the steel wasn’t going to provide much protection, even at an angle.
He thought about it for a few seconds. If Daisy was correct and the shooter was a meth-head amateur, then the criminal was probably armed with a 9mm handgun or something similar in caliber.
In that case, the thickness of the sign would protect him, but he’d have to work quickly to avoid successive shots in the same location. They’d cause an ever-deepening dent and eventually penetrate.
Bunker weighed the odds and decided it was worth the gamble. He put his knife into its sheath, crawled over to the stop sign, and grabbed it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bunker used the half-inch mounting holes in the center of the sign as a grab point. The tips of his index fingers just fit, allowing him keep the shield in position as he worked his way to the mower in a crouched position.
His fingers were exposed to the shooter; however, he wasn’t too concerned. Not if he was facing an amateur like Daisy suspected. The man’s hands were probably shaking thanks to the rush of adrenaline pumping inside his arteries. He’d seen it many times before, even in the service. Unexpected duress turns ordinary shooters into cowering sprayers and prayers. Unless the man inside had a precision-guided firearm, like the Tracking Point M1400, accuracy would elude him.
Regardless, Bunker couldn’t rely on his assumptions and let his guard down. Not with his life and Daisy’s on the line. The sign needed to stay in front of him and angled to help deflect any rounds launched his way.
Daisy was still on the left, positioned behind one of the rock piles in the driveway. Bunker could feel her eyes studying his every move, trying to figure out what he was doing.
He didn’t get a chance to lay out the diversion plan before he started on this quest, so she’d have to be patient and figure it out on her own. She was smart and capable. As long as she took the shot when the opportunity presented itself, his plan should work.
After another step, the sign bumped into something firm. He lifted the metal several inches and took a peek underneath. The moonlight was just bright enough to see a pair of black wheels and the mower’s cutting deck.
It was time to reverse course and haul the mower where he needed it. He took a deep, invigorating breath and hoisted the sign in one flash of movement, then brought it down on the inside of the handlebar in front of him.
He wrapped his fingers around the mower’s grab bar and pulled the machine away from the house, keeping the shield in place. The weeds were thick, slowing the process down, but he was able to drag the cutter behind the trucks where he had better cover. He tossed the sign aside.
Part of him was shocked the shooter hadn’t sent a round while he was exposed, but the rest of him was thankful. Bunker couldn’t be sure if the intruder was watching him or not, but since Daisy hadn’t taken a shot, he assumed no. He figured the target was hunkered down behind a couch, waiting for them to breach.
Bunker found the cap to the mower’s tank and twisted it open. He leaned in to smell it. The fumes were potent, making him turn his head away. Fresh gas. Excellent news.
He took the beer can and held it under the machine as he tilted it, allowing the fuel to leak out and run inside the aluminum container. Some of it spilled onto his fingers, but he was able to fill the can halfway. He put the mower back on its wheels, leaving the gas cap off.
Bunker held the can next to the mower and was about to pour it across the ground to make a long fuse, but a new thought stopped him. If he didn’t work quickly, the gas would evaporate or soak into the dirt. Either way, it would become inert and not light. But that wasn’t the only problem.
The mower’s explosion might not set off the old fuel in the truck’s tank. For ignition to happen, he needed to bring a high-intensity flame directly inside the tank.
A better solution was needed.
Then he remembered the bandana in his pocket. He pulled the rag out and studied it for a few seconds, letting a new idea form in his brain. He liked it, though everything had to be set up perfectly for it to work.
First, he made sure the truck’s gas cap was securely in place. He twisted it tight, locking the varnished fuel inside the enclosed container. Step one complete.
Now he needed to find the weakest point on the truck’s tank. He opened the matchbook and struck one of the four remaining matches. It was risky to expose his location for a few seconds, but he didn’t have a choice.
When the match head finished its initial flare, he bent down with the steady flame and held it u
nder the truck. He studied the condition of the tank, finding a rusted area about the size of a baseball on its longest side, facing forward. Some of the steel had peeled away, reminding him of petals on a rose, though brown instead of red.
He put the tip of his knife against the tank to mark the location, then blew out the match. He wrapped both hands around the knife’s handle and leveraged all his weight to push the blade into the oxidized area.
The tip penetrated slowly at first before the metal gave way, sending the rest of the knife inside with a lurch. The lack of resistance sent his knuckles slamming into the tank, bringing a sharp sting to his hands. He grimaced and withdrew the knife.
The decomposing fuel began to seep out in slow-moving clumps of goo. It reminded him of nearly frozen marmalade jelly, oozing out like sap from a tree.
Now for the bandana. He sliced the smelly do-rag into two dozen strips of cloth, each a half inch in width. Once cut, he twisted them lengthwise between his fingers to form strings, then tied their ends together.
Next up: the beer can and its fuel. He dunked the makeshift fuse into the gas and let the cloth soak for a few seconds. When he took it out, he put one end of the fuse into the mower’s tank and draped the rest of it to the ground.
He slid the machine under the truck’s gas tank, positioning the mower’s cutting deck directly under the fuel icicle that was now halfway to the ground. He spread out the remainder of the fuse on the ground, snaking it around the rear tire and under the tailgate.
It was now or never.
Bunker wiped his hands in the dirt to soak up the petroleum on his fingers, then took the matchbook and folded over one of the remaining matchsticks. He closed the cover and lit the exposed match with a single swipe of his thumb across the contact strip.
Once the flame settled into a steady burn, he angled the rest of the matchbook over the fire, then tossed the burning pack onto the end of the fuse. Bunker crawled feverishly past the other two trucks and positioned himself inside the stack of metal signs.
Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 2) Page 9
