by Chris Culver
“Negative,” said Muniz and Nicholson, almost in unison.
“Shit,” said Kaler, scanning the area for his target again, and again finding nothing. “We’ve got a problem.”
The house was about two hundred yards from the road, and as I turned down the driveway, my headlights illuminated the woods around us, catching a possum or raccoon by surprise. Its dark eyes stared at us, reflecting my headlights back at us like a pair of tiny mirrors. Then the animal turned and ran.
With the house for sale and foot traffic at a minimum, this was probably a pretty safe area for small animals to bed down for the night. More than likely, we’d find some vermin inside.
“Kind of nice to see nature every now and then,” said Havelock, nodding toward where the animal had been. “At my house in Indianapolis, I only see feral cats and sewer rats.”
I glanced at him as I pulled the car to a stop behind a Volvo station wagon parked in the driveway. “What kind of neighborhood do you live in?”
He chuckled as he opened his door. “Apparently a bad one.”
I smiled a little and stepped out into the night. It had cooled off considerably from earlier that day. Something—a mouse or another rodent, likely—rustled the leaves to my right. I looked around, but I couldn’t see Havelock’s agents anywhere, which wasn’t too unexpected. Every one of them wore black tactical vests and black pants. They blended into the night. It was nice knowing they had my back if anything happened.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for a while,” said Havelock.
I nodded, but I wasn’t sure that I agreed with him. There were dry, dead leaves and twigs randomly scattered across the driveway and on top of the pickup. The wind could have scattered the debris, but there was something wrong. I walked to the truck and ran my hand across the roof. My fingers came away with a thin layer of grit. It was an old car, and it certainly wasn’t clean, but it didn’t look abandoned, either.
“There’s no pollen on the truck,” I said, nodding to the woods around us. “There are a couple of pine trees out there. If this car had been here for as long as we’re supposed to believe, it’d be covered in pollen as well as leaves.”
Havelock reached to his waist and unholstered his weapon.
“You still want to go in?”
I thought for a moment and then nodded before walking toward the home. “If your team says the house is empty, I believe them. We’re not going to go in through the doors, though. Too likely they’re booby trapped.”
Havelock agreed, so we started peering into windows with our flashlights. The house had some furniture, but no people in it. Though it didn’t look it from the driveway, it was a surprisingly large place with lots of windows, all of which were locked and intact. Unfortunately, I couldn’t pick a window lock the way I could a deadbolt. We’d do some damage getting in, but the Bureau’s insurance would pay for it.
I used the butt of my pistol to break a window in the laundry room and then gestured for Agent Havelock.
“After you,” I said.
Havelock didn’t hesitate to go through the window. I climbed through after him. Broken glass crunched beneath my feet. There were hookups for a washer and dryer along the wall to my right, and there was a thin layer of dust on the vinyl flooring. Nobody had been in this room for a while.
I unholstered my firearm and walked toward the door. The hallway was clear. A door to the left led to the garage—also empty—while the hallway to the right led to the kitchen, great room, and entryway. We swept the kitchen quickly. Almost all the cabinets were open and bare. Those that weren’t open had a layer of dust on them as thick as the layer that had been on the floor. The pantry held a single box of Corn Flakes.
The dining room and entryway were both empty and clear, and I couldn’t find any indication that Butler and his friends had wired the front door. It all left me wondering what the hell we were doing there.
Our team outside had cleared the woods, and by all accounts, the house was empty. I didn’t know the first thing about Butler, but none of the people I had found in my investigation were stupid. Butler and his friends had brought us here for a reason, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was.
Havelock and I left the entryway and walked into the living room. There, we found a pair of couches and a coffee table. Curiously, there were a lot of papers on the table. Havelock knelt down and picked up a photograph, one of dozens spread across the table. It depicted Jacob Ganim at Nassir’s farm. He wore a sweat-stained hoodie sweatshirt and jeans that were covered in a layer of dirt. Nassir and Qadi stood beside him. Both were similarly attired, and both were carrying shovels. Everyone was smiling.
“So now we know Butler and his friends were watching Jacob Ganim,” said Havelock, returning the picture to the stack. “If they knew we were coming, why would they leave the pictures in the middle of the room? Why wouldn’t they destroy them?”
I didn’t know how to answer, so I looked away. Havelock and I were in the center of an open room. There were clear sightlines to the hill outside. That was when I realized why the bad guys hadn’t destroyed them.
“Duck.”
Almost the instant the words left my lips, the first shot came through the window. By then, it was too late. Havelock’s blood splashed all over my face as he went down.
Chapter 36
The instant the shot rang out, Kamil Salib knew he had just killed a man. Life was a precious, sacred gift from God, and to take it without just cause was a sin punishable by an eternity in hell. Kamil hadn’t murdered anyone, though. This was righteous.
“They’re in the trees,” shouted a voice beneath him.
Kamil had one job that evening: kill the detective and then escape. The pictures on the coffee table had been Hashim Bashear’s idea. He knew how the police thought. He knew they would search the home, and he knew the pictures would draw their attention. Kamil’s partner, Daniel, would provide as much cover as he could, but it was up to Kamil to do the job.
He lined up another shot, waiting for a head or other limb to pop up. He slowed his breathing and counted backwards from ten, trying to calm himself.
And then a round thwacked into a tree nearby. He flinched but didn’t let himself panic. The FBI agents didn’t know where he was exactly, but they were trying to find him. Everything had gone according to Bashear’s plan. Like American soldiers overseas, the FBI agents came in with night-vision technology. It gave them a decided advantage after dark, an advantage that filled them with confidence.
It also made them predictable. Suspended in a black hunter’s blind with foam insulation beneath him, he was a ghost able to wreak havoc in the material world.
Kamil held his breath as another shot rang out beneath him. This one thudded into a tree farther away than the first.
“Keep shooting, asshole,” he whispered as softly as the wind rustled. “It just makes it easier for us to find you.”
With each second that passed, Kamil’s hands grew steadier, and his breath grew even more steady. He put his eye to the scope of his rifle again and waited. Though he was prepared to pull the trigger, he didn’t need to shoot anyone. He just needed to keep the men inside the house contained long enough for the second part of Hashim’s plan to start.
Special Agent Kaler sprinted through the woods toward the spot in which his supervisor and friend Ken Hanson should have been. At the same time, he keyed his microphone.
“Sound off. What’s your status?”
“Unhurt,” said Muniz. “I’m moving to higher ground.”
“Nicholson?” asked Kaler.
“Unhurt as well,” he said. “The shooter’s near me, but I can’t find him. He’s in the tree somewhere. Have we got air support incoming yet?”
“Hanson had the sat phone,” said Kaler. “I haven’t got reception on my cell. We can’t stay here and wait for help. We’ve got to get back to the car.”
“How’d we miss these guys?” asked Muniz. “We swept
this area.”
“I have no idea,” said Kaler, still moving. “Keep your eyes open. You see anybody unfamiliar, light him up. With the bad guys above us, we are sitting ducks. We’ll regroup at the car and use it as cover to get Rashid and Havelock out of the house.”
“Agreed,” said Muniz.
“On my way,” said Nicholson.
Kaler took his hand off the switch on his radio and took a deep breath. The ground was uneven and rough, and he ran in a zigzag pattern from tree to tree for whatever cover he could get. Another shot rang out, and he dove to the ground at the base of an eastern white pine tree. The tree’s needles wouldn’t give him cover, but at least they concealed him.
“Anybody hit?”
“It was to the east,” said Nicholson.
“I got him,” said Muniz. “He’s in a tree stand.”
“Light his ass up.”
Almost the moment the words left his lips, something thwacked into the ground at Kaler’s feet. He stared at it for a moment, dumbfounded.
It was an arrow with a barbed tip.
Then another slammed into the ground at his feet. If the pine needles above him hadn’t deflected it, that arrow might have killed him. Kaler skidded on the ground, to get to the other side of the tree and hopefully out of the shooter’s reach.
No wonder they hadn’t heard Hanson go down. He probably got shot with a bow and arrow. It seemed almost medieval.
Gunfire erupted to his east as Agent Muniz opened fire. Rounds from the agent’s M4 carbine slammed into the tree stand, tearing it to bits. Within seconds, something heavy thudded to the ground.
“Splash one,” said Muniz.
Kaler looked at the arrows on the ground. The angle from which they had come was approximately fifteen degrees from the vertical and to the northeast. Kaler raised his rifle and fired half a dozen shots in the approximate direction.
Then he ran as hard as he could in the opposite direction until he could put his back to an old oak tree.
“Who’s firing?” asked Nicholson.
“I am,” said Kaler. “He’s northeast of my position in a tree. He’s got a bow and arrow, and he’s dangerous with it. You’re not going to hear him coming. We need to get back to the car and call in air support.”
“What do you want to do about Robin Hood?” asked Muniz.
Kaler took a deep breath. “We’ll get a bird in the air and flush him out.”
“Shit,” I said, holding my hand over Agent Havelock’s throat. Blood oozed between my fingers and down my wrists. Havelock croaked something but then choked as blood trickled out of his mouth. “Stop talking. You’re making it worse.”
Had someone not been shooting at us, I would have held a clean cloth to his throat and kept him immobilized until an ambulance could pick us up. If we stayed in the middle of that room, though, we were dead.
“We’ve got to move, and it’s probably going to hurt. Sorry about this.”
Havelock might have said something, but it came out as a choked gurgle, which meant he had fluid in his lungs. As a police officer, I had gone through some first-aid training, but not enough to deal with this. I grabbed him by the shoulders and manhandled him onto his belly. I didn’t know if that would help get the blood out of his lungs, but with an active shooter targeting us, it was all I could do.
I crawled to what I thought was the relative safety of the kitchen, dragging him behind me. The FBI agent’s blood made him slide easily over the hardwood floor. We weren’t safe in the kitchen, but the windows were higher and smaller, limiting the shooter’s view inside.
I sat Havelock up and leaned him against the cabinets as I ripped at his shirt. The fabric wasn’t clean, but infection was the least of his worries at the moment. I held a bunch of cloth against the wound on his neck.
“Keep breathing,” I said. “Come on, man.”
For a brief moment, he flicked his eyes toward me and held my gaze. Then he reached up to my wrist. We stayed like that for thirty or forty seconds. With every beat of his heart, I could feel his blood soaking the fabric more and more. His eyes were distant, and he had an almost peaceful expression on his face. I didn’t know what Havelock was seeing, but it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t this hateful house.
“Stay with me,” I said, adjusting him to sit him up straighter and pressing the cloth harder against his throat. “You’re going to be okay. Just keep breathing.”
Gradually, I felt the grip on my wrist weaken. Then his hand dropped to his waist. The serene expression never left his face. A doctor could probably have explained exactly what was happening, but I didn’t need an explanation. Havelock was dying. I kept the cloth pressed as hard against his neck as I could, but already his heartbeat began to grow weaker.
“Don’t give up on me,” I said. “You’re getting out of here. I’m going to get you home.”
I didn’t know whether he understood me, but he blinked slowly. Then he looked at me. That serene, calm expression twisted into something violent. He gurgled and coughed blood. I rolled him onto his belly again, hoping the fluid would run out of his lungs. He coughed again, and then he stopped moving.
“No, no, no,” I said, rolling him back over. His eyes were open, but they had no life in them at all. I put my hands together in the center of his chest and began a CPR cycle. Unfortunately, that opened the wound on his neck even further, and blood began flowing out onto the floor again, covering it in a slick film. That same blood coated my arms nearly up to my elbows, but I kept going.
When I hit thirty compressions, I looked at him in the eye again. For a brief moment, I thought I caught a glimmer of something, but it might have been my imagination. I held my hand to his throat. He didn’t have a pulse, so I began compressing his chest again.
“Come on, Kevin,” I said. “Don’t give up.”
I got five compressions in before I heard the crack of a high-powered rifle. The window behind me shattered. Glass rained down on my back and head, and a round slammed into the floor to my right, shattering the porcelain tile.
“Shit.”
I tried to duck, but the floor was so slick with blood that my limbs went out from under me. My body went flat, and my belly hit the floor. I didn’t bother getting up that time. Instead, I crawled on all fours as fast as I could toward the hallway that led to the laundry room and garage. That didn’t put me any closer to getting out of the house, but there weren’t any windows for someone to shoot me through, either.
As I lay there catching my breath, someone outside shouted. Then I heard shots. They were higher-pitched than the rifle used to shoot Havelock, and they came in rapid succession. The FBI agents outside must have been firing back. I looked to Havelock’s body.
“They’re coming for us,” I said. “I’m going to get you home.”
I took a couple of deep breaths. And then, as I turned my head, I smelled it for the first time: smoke. My stomach contorted. This wasn’t wood smoke from an abandoned campsite. This had a chemical undertone that seemed to coat my lungs, and it was growing stronger.
I shot my eyes around the hallway. Little light penetrated this part of the house, so I pulled out my cell phone and held it up, using it as a flashlight. A thick haze hung in the air. It seemed to be coming from a door near the garage.
I coughed into my shirt sleeve and hurried down the hall. Already, the air near the ceiling was growing thick, so I crouched low beneath the layer of smoke. The hallway seemed to grow warmer with every passing moment, and smoke began to burn my eyes. Even if I could put out a fire, I didn’t know how much longer I could stay around that kind of environment.
When I reached the door, smoke billowed from beneath and around it. The knob burned my hand the moment I touched it. It was like something out of one of the campy horror movies my wife loved, only this one might actually kill me. I didn’t bother opening the door. The burn on the palm of my hand told me everything I needed to know: This house was gone.
I coughed violently into my sleeve
before looking up and down the hallway for an exit. A door led to the laundry room, but its window opened to the same side of the house as the front room. Even if I made it through the window without being shot, the nearest cover would have been at least ten yards away. I’d be cut down well before I made that.
The kitchen had windows on both the north and south side. The shooter wouldn’t be able to get me if I went out the south-side window, but the landscape dropped off steeply. It was about a two-story drop. That was an option, but it might have left me with a broken leg in the middle of a gunfight in some very deep woods.
The garage opened to the west. So far, no shots had come from that direction, but that didn’t mean I’d be safe there. Still, it was probably my best bet to survive. I sprinted to the kitchen but stopped before going more than a foot or two inside. Smoke roiled near the ceiling. The fire was spreading beneath me even as I hesitated. Havelock’s blood had spread around him so that it gave the floor a thin reddish-brown sheen. Tempered glass crunched beneath my feet.
Agent Havelock and I weren’t friends, but I respected him. Character mattered to me, and he had died trying to keep other people safe. He didn’t deserve to die in that house, and he didn’t deserve to be left behind as I escaped.
And yet, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
The house was burning around me, and a shooter stalked us from outside. I couldn’t expose myself to grab a dead man. I had to focus on the living, and that meant getting the hell out of there while I could.
“I’m sorry,” I said for the second time that night.
I watched for another moment and began to feel the heat beneath me. The floor joists were probably catching now. I didn’t have time to hesitate. I kept my head down and ran toward the garage.
The homeowner had evidently used the room for storage because there were boxes stacked throughout the space. I didn’t expect the garage door opener to work, but I hit the button beside the back door anyway. As expected, nothing happened, so I pushed boxes out of the way and pulled the manual release clamp.
