‘Oh, Lord. When did this happen?’
‘Just now. Minutes ago.’
‘How bad is it?’ First the cabin, now this. If Hope was involved, the answer was predictable enough.
‘Couldn’t be much worse. The trucks are blown to shit, along with everything in them and the entire stock. They’re still draggin’ bodies out of the wreckage. Twelve confirmed dead, three missing. It’s only Meagher, Lukas and Strickman left, and Strickman’s lost an ear.’
Strickman’s missing ear was of small concern to Finn. His heart was rattling along like a train. ‘Jesus Christ, how’d he get into the place? Who was on the gate?’
‘Gulick had the watch. Looks like he never saw it coming. Hope slit’m from ear to ear. Took his wallet and his phone. Used his rifle to kill Hannigan and Stearns.’
A plug of hot bile rose up in Finn’s throat, though not out of sympathy for Gulick or the others. He managed to swallow it back down again, only just.
‘When you say there’s nothing left—’
Any tiny glimmer of hopefulness was swiftly dashed by Ritter’s reply. ‘Sounds like what it is, boss. Meagher said the place looks like fuckin’ Hiroshima.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ Finn repeated. His stomach didn’t feel good at all. ‘Where are you?’
‘Still here clocking an empty house,’ Ritter said pointedly. ‘You want me and Moon to head down to Big Bear? Boss? Boss?’
Finn had hung up, in order to dash to the kitchen sink and let go of the rising tide that wouldn’t be kept down any longer. He was violently sick twice, then gulped down a glass of water and a fistful of antacids and collapsed in a wicker chair. A cold sweat rippled down his body like witches ‘fingers at the thought of his precious stock all gone, gone, blown to smithereens. But the cold sweat was nothing compared to the dread terror of what would happen when the Mexicans found out about this. Those guys were as paranoid as they were ruthless. They’d instantly suspect that the attack was the work of the DEA or the FBI – that a massive law enforcement operation was closing on a supplier it was now time to cut their ties with. Cutting ties meant visits in the night. It meant carjacking, kidnapping and heaven knew what else. It meant slitting throats. Colombian neckties. Slow dismemberment. Blood-spattered shower curtains. Screaming horror and death.
Finn rose from his chair and made it to the kitchen sink before throwing up a third time. He splashed water in his face, screwed up his eyes and let out a miserable groan.
That was when the phone rang again. He wiped his chin and stared at it, thinking it must be Ritter calling with even worse news. Like the Mexicans were on their way already, armed with chainsaws and blowtorches. ‘What the hell,’ he croaked wretchedly, and picked up.
‘Guess what I got for you,’ said the gravelly voice of Liam O’Rourke, sounding uncharacteristically upbeat.
A small ray of sunshine beamed down over Finn McCrory as he listened to the news. O’Rourke’s version of events naturally gave him all the credit for tracking down the Hayes woman and bringing her into custody.
‘She’s under arrest?’
‘Sure, but I wouldn’t worry about that. Paperwork can disappear, just like people can. The officer who booked her, he’s my guy.’
Finn was beginning to smile as the black clouds overhead rapidly dissolved away to clear blue sky and he suddenly could see how he was going to get through this. It was a magnificent turnaround. The Hayes woman was no longer a threat, and soon neither would Ben Hope be. His secrets would be protected. He would survive. Even the Mexicans didn’t seem like such a big deal. In his elation he quite believed that things would be smoothed out just fine. It was just a glitch. He’d come out on top, like always. He was Finn McCrory.
‘What you want me to do with her?’ O’Rourke asked.
The chief of police, at his beck and call, awaiting orders. Finn’s smile widened. With the cabin and the farm gone, there was only one place he could keep his new hostage. Certainly not at the house, and the aircraft hangar was too public. Serendipity had provided a nice alternative.
‘Bring the bitch up to the ranch,’ he said.
O’Rourke hesitated. ‘Arrowhead? Big Joe’s place? Christ, Finn, you sure?’
Unbelievable. The old bastard managed to intimidate even Liam O’Rourke.
‘He’s out of the way for a couple days,’ Finn said. ‘Topeka. Seeing a man about a horse, I don’t know what. Point is, we have the place to ourselves.’
O’Rourke seemed relieved to hear that Big Joe was two hundred miles away in Kansas. ‘Okay. I’ll take care of it personally.’
‘Get rolling, chief. And bring as many of the boys as you can get hold of.’
‘We expecting trouble?’
‘Not that we can’t handle,’ McCrory said with a grin. ‘Not any more.’
Chapter Fifty-Six
Ben tried again to call Erin’s mobile as he crossed the line back into Tulsa County, then once more coming into the outskirts of Broken Arrow. Still no reply.
‘Come on, answer the damn thing,’ he said out loud.
Of all the things that worried him at the moment, it was Erin that worried him the most. The fact that she’d left the hotel when she’d been supposed to lie low there, and that she wasn’t responding to her phone when she was meant to be waiting for his call. It wasn’t like her.
The other two things on his mind were Ritter and Moon. Ben had little doubt that their not being present at Big Bear Farm that day had made his work there a lot easier. That was a plus. But now he’d lost his biggest tactical advantage – the element of surprise that had enabled him to strike hard and fast and get out again before the enemy had known what hit them. Now they knew he was coming, and they’d be waiting for him to make his next move, ready to respond with everything they had. That was a big negative.
Nor was Ben happy not knowing where Ritter and Moon were, especially now that Erin had strangely disappeared off his radar screen. Put all those concerns together, and they added up to a set of possibilities that he didn’t like. He didn’t like them one bit.
His jaw tightened and he pressed a little harder on the gas, shooting past slower cars and trucks to the throaty tune of the Barracuda’s Hemi V8. The turnpike led straight into the heart of Tulsa. He’d be there in just a few minutes. Then he would see what he would see.
That was when the sudden shrill of the Dixie ringtone sounded in the car next to him. He glanced across to see that it was coming from the phone he’d taken from the sentry called Gulick, which was lying on the front passenger seat next to the dead man’s wallet.
The phone kept ringing insistently. He hesitated, then reached over for it, thumbed the REPLY button and pressed it to his ear without saying anything.
‘Hey there. How are you feeling on this fine sunny day?’
Ben’s fist tightened on the steering wheel as he recognised McCrory’s voice. He sounded bright and breezy, like a friend calling up for a catch-up chatter. His amicable tone gave Ben a chill.
‘Congratulations, Mr Hope. You sure had some fun at my expense today, didn’t you? I’ll bet you had a ball. Yes, sir.’
Ben said nothing.
‘Well, I just wanted to call and let you know that the fun ain’t over,’ said the cheery voice in his ear. ‘In fact, it’s just about to begin. We got ourselves some female company, me and the boys here. That lady friend of yours is quite something, isn’t she?’
‘Put her on,’ Ben said. He felt numb. The road kept spooling towards him at ninety miles an hour.
McCrory laughed. ‘Sorry, bud. She can’t talk right now.’
‘She’d better be all right.’
‘Oh, we’re taking good care of her. Don’t you worry about that.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Why, just the pleasure of your acquaintance. I was thinking, how about you come and join us all here? We’ll have ourselves a party. Talk things over. Kind of square things up, man to man.’
‘Tell me where,’ Ben said
.
‘Arrowhead Ranch. Out by Sand Springs. You’ll know where to find it.’
‘I’ll see you there,’ Ben said.
McCrory laughed again. ‘Delighted to hear it. I’ll be waiting. Put on a nice reception for you. Just like old pals.’
‘Soon,’ Ben said. He tossed the phone out of the car window and hit the gas harder.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Finn McCrory smiled as the line went dead. He turned off his phone and tucked it into the pocket of the fancy hand-stitched jeans he was wearing, along with a cool white shirt and his favourite tooled cowboy boots. The jeans were tight around the middle, cinched with a silver-buckled alligator belt on which was riding his .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver in a custom John Bianchi holster. The gun was a special order in mirror-finish nickel plate, with scroll engraving and cocobolo hardwood grips by Hogue, monogrammed with his initials in mother-of-pearl. It felt pretty good there on his hip. Made him feel invulnerable.
It was a beautiful afternoon. Finn stood by his still-ticking Mercedes and gazed up at the sky, an unbroken azure dome above the green pastures of Arrowhead Ranch that stretched for miles in three directions, a world of peace and tranquillity as far from anything as a man could ever want to get. The thoroughbreds were grazing in their neatly fenced paddocks. The birds were singing in the old oak trees that pleasantly shaded the big whitewood century ranch house. Yes, a beautiful day – one that might not have started so well for him, but which was now turning out just fine.
Hadn’t he said it? Hadn’t it been his brainwave that the woman was the key to getting Hope? Finn was pretty pleased with himself. And soon, very soon, the rest of the plan would fall into place as nice as pie.
An approaching dust cloud on the long private road that wound up to the ranch turned out to be the white GMC van. Finn walked out to greet it as it rolled up. Ritter and Moon sprang down from the cab while the side door slid open and Meagher, Lukas and Strickman got out. Strickman was wearing a thick makeshift bandage covering one ear and the side of his head, and looked like death. Moon’s chest slogan for the day was ‘I DON’T CALL 911’.
‘This all you could get?’ Finn asked them, surveying the crew through narrowed eyes. Never mind, it would be enough.
‘This is all that’s left,’ Ritter said. ‘She here?’
‘Any time now,’ Finn replied, and shielded his eyes with his hand to scan the horizon. Moments later, a second dust cloud appeared in the distance. They watched the two faraway cars turn off the road and grow steadily larger. Chief Liam O’Rourke’s silver Mercury Grand Marquis led the way, followed by an unmarked Crown Victoria.
The cars crunched to a halt up next to the other vehicles. O’Rourke stepped out of the Mercury, jacketless in a shoulder holster rig and accompanied by fellow Irishman Mike Corcoran. Finn knew all three cops in the Crown Vic: Lou Wylie, Dixon Coyle and Cliff Duhame. All three were on his payroll.
Duhame got out of the back seat clutching their guest of honour by the arm. She was still protesting as violently as she’d been when they’d hauled her from her cell for an unauthorised ride out into the country.
‘Spirited little thing, ain’t she?’ O’Rourke grunted.
Moon was almost salivating.
‘Afternoon, Miss Hayes,’ Finn said with a broad smile. ‘Welcome to Arrowhead Ranch. Pleasure to have you with us.’
‘Rot in hell!’ Erin spat back at him.
‘See what I mean?’ O’Rourke said.
‘She’ll soon cool down.’ Finn motioned to Ritter and Moon, who stepped forward and took Erin from Duhame, one arm each so that she was powerless to fight them. Finn led the way from the house to the stable block around the side. Most of them were unused nowadays, since the old man had laid off the ranch-hands and drastically scaled down his stock in latter years (hopefully a sign of age finally catching up). So was the brick-built tack-room at the end of the stable building. ‘In there,’ Finn said, and Ritter and Moon shoved Erin inside.
‘See ya real soon, sugar tits,’ Moon said to her, and then lolled his tongue obscenely.
The door banged shut and Finn double-bolted it, snapping the padlock shut and giving the key to Moon. ‘You’re the jailer.’
‘My pleasure,’ Moon said with a wolfish smile.
Back at the house, the mixed group of gangsters and bent cops were eyeing one another warily. ‘Hope doesn’t stand a chance,’ Finn said, surveying his little defence force.
‘So this Hope guy is the one who’s been causing all the trouble, huh?’ O’Rourke said.
Finn gave a dismissive wave. ‘He’s nothing.’
‘He’s a little more than that,’ Ritter said. ‘You called down the thunder. Storm’s coming.’
‘He won’t be so tough when we start peeling his girlfriend’s skin off,’ Finn said.
‘All the same, boss, I think you should find somewhere to take cover when he gets here.’
‘You worry too much, Ritter.’ Finn laughed, and the cops laughed with him. But Finn stopped laughing before they did, and his hand found its way to rest on the butt of his revolver.
Ritter looked at his watch. ‘He could be here any time. Dave, break out the gear.’ Meagher nodded and opened up the back of the van. Coyle peered inside. ‘Crap. You boys bring enough hardware?’
Moon tossed him an M4 battle rifle. ‘Gonna need it. This guy ain’t easy to kill.’
‘Why, Billy Bob, I do believe you’re afraid,’ O’Rourke said. He and Moon had crossed paths on a few previous occasions.
‘Up your ass,’ Moon replied, giving him the finger. ‘Sonofabitch I’d be afraid of ain’t born yet, and his mother’s dead.’
The next couple of minutes were taken up with the unloading of weapons from the van and the cars. Corcoran and Wylie had raided the police armoury for a couple of Remington twelve-gauge pumps. Everyone had brought their sidearms for backup, too. Conversation dropped to a minimum amid the pre-battle sound of magazines being loaded and inserted, bolts being clacked and general tooling up.
Moon smirked as all five cops put on their bulky Kevlar vests. ‘Now who’s pussy?’
‘Let’s go inside,’ Finn said, ignoring him.
The interior of the ranch house was traditional Okie, the way the old man had designed it. He liked big rooms, big furniture, sumptuously varnished wood and acres of steerhide leather. The walls were decorated with mounted animal heads, racks of antlers and pictures of Big Joe posing with all manner of stuff he’d killed on scores of hunting trips. An original Wells Fargo stagecoach wheel had been made into a chandelier. A section of the enormous living room was fashioned after a western saloon bar, complete with cow horns and a spittoon. Cherokee spears and tomahawks hung above doorways and antique six-guns and Winchesters were everywhere. Finn had grown up with all that Roy Rogers shit and didn’t even look at it. He threw himself into a deep leather couch while the others stood around or sat in chairs or leaned against the walls, biding their time.
They waited. And waited. Finn got up and began pacing. Ritter sat completely immobile with a blank thousand-yard stare, nursing his rifle as if it were a part of his flesh. Moon smacked gum and thought about Erin Hayes.
‘How ’bout a drink?’ Coyle suggested, eyeing the spirits cabinet. It was hot sitting about in those damn bulletproof vests.
‘I’d stay sharp if I was you,’ Ritter said, without moving his eyes.
More time passed, and nothing happened. The sun sank in the west and the sky turned golden-red and then purple.
‘Why ain’t he here yet?’ Mike Corcoran asked. Nobody replied.
Evening slowly merged into night, the stars came out. Still nothing. They drew the blinds so that Hope couldn’t see inside the house. A coyote yipped and howled in the distance and Coyle and Duhame exchanged uneasy glances. The cops hadn’t reckoned on this. They had anxious wives and hot dinners and TV and warm beds waiting for them at home. The silence and the waiting had them rattled.
‘Maybe he ran,’ Fin
n said, breaking another long, tense silence. ‘Hell, maybe he won’t come at all.’
‘He’ll come,’ Ritter said.
Twenty more minutes had passed before they saw the approaching car lights shining brightly through the gaps in the blinds. Everyone moved nearer the window, tense, listening hard. Soon afterwards, they heard the growl of a big V8 getting closer.
‘This is it, boys,’ O’Rourke said, assuming command as befitted his rank. ‘He’s here.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
‘I don’t believe it,’ Wylie said, watching through the blinds as the lights drew steadily closer. ‘He’s just driving right up to the house. Fucker’s as bold as brass.’
‘Guy’s got some balls, gotta give’m that,’ O’Rourke muttered. He had beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. He puffed out his chest. ‘All right. Let’s take care of business.’
O’Rourke drew his Colt Python from the shoulder rig. Corcoran racked a round into the chamber of his Remington pump with that bright, crunchy snick-snack that had put the fear into a million hearts. Moon quietly pressed off the safety of his M4 and swapped glances with Ritter. Both thinking the same thing. Fuckin’ cops. On another day, they wouldn’t have hesitated to gun down the whole stinking bunch and do themselves and the world a favour. The people you had to work with.
‘What the hell’s he doing?’ Finn murmured, watching from another window. But as the dazzling lights drew up close to the house and he recognised the vehicle, he deflated like a punctured ball.
The Dodge Ram.
It wasn’t Hope. Big Joe was back.
‘Oh, shit,’ Finn said under his breath.
He watched, paralysed, as the pickup truck stopped outside. The lights and engine died. The old man got out, showing no apparent stiffness after his long drive from Kansas. He was in his travelling clothes, jeans and denim jacket, and had a sling bag over his shoulder. He lingered for a moment to stare at the four vehicles parked outside his house, and Finn saw his face crease up into a deep, dark frown that Finn had seen before.
The Forgotten Holocaust (Ben Hope, Book 10) Page 31
