Rose City Kill Zone

by DL Barbur

  “Guy that was shooting at you through the wall is down,” Dale said. “Ok to go down the hall.”

  I realized Dale had been looking through the windows. He’d wanted me to turn on my strobe so he could be sure he was shooting the right guy. It was good to work with professionals.

  I stepped out in the hall. Robert was in a doorway, firing back towards the stairway landing. The guy who had been shooting at me was slumped in his doorway, I saw a dark spray of blood all over the wall opposite him.

  I shined my light toward the end of the hall. A man stuck his head out of the doorway on the left-hand side, then quickly jerked it back in. He’d been exposed for a fraction of a second, but there was no doubt in my mind who it was: Marshall.

  I wanted to run forward, smash my way into the room and grab him, but I forced myself to slow down.

  “Bullseye. Bullseye. Bullseye,” I said into my radio. Code for Marshall. “Northeast corner, second floor.”

  Now if I went down, Dale and everybody else would know where to shoot.

  I moved forward, rifle up, with my light turned on. As much as I wanted to put that little red dot on Marshall’s forehead and stroke the trigger, I reminded myself we were supposed to take him alive.

  A pale yellow light came out of the doorway. As I moved so I could see around the corner of the door frame, I saw a Coleman lantern sitting on the floor. Marshall stood in the middle of the room. He held a woman in front of him as a shield. I didn’t recognize her, but even through the goggles, I could tell she wasn’t Mrs. Marshall. She was young, with long curly hair and wore only a t-shirt. She struggled, but Marshall had an arm wrapped around her neck. He held a pistol in the other hand, pointed down at the ground.

  “Federal Agent! Drop the gun!” I yelled as I brought my rifle up. There was no way to sneak a shot around the girl. She was almost as tall as Marshall, and the way she was flailing around, I was more likely to shoot her than him.

  “Get out of here!” Marshall screamed. “We have an arrangement.”

  That was interesting.

  He raised the gun. I stepped back out of the doorway in time to not get hit by the bullet that came through. Robert and I backed into each other.

  He pegged a couple of shots down the hallway, then changed magazines.

  “That’s my last rifle mag,” he said. “We can’t keep this up for much longer.”

  “I’m going to bang the room,” I said. We’d managed to salvage two flashbangs from our gear. One was clipped to my vest, the other to Robert’s.

  “Give me your smoke,” he said. Down at the end of the hallway, I saw movement. I handed him the smoke grenade, then pulled the flashbang off my vest. I yanked the pin, then released the spoon.

  “Bang out,” I said, and looked away. I slung my rifle around behind my back.

  When the bang went off, it was oddly muffled. I charged through the door, empty-handed, hoping I wasn’t about to walk into a hail of gunfire. A smell like cooked meat filled my nostrils.

  The sound of the grenade had been muffled because Marshall had pushed the girl down on it. She was dead. There was little doubt about that. He sat on his haunches with his hands over his ears, with the pistol on the floor beside him. I rushed forward and soccer kicked him in the chest, partially to get him away from the girl, and partially because I just fucking felt like it. He hit the opposite wall with a thud, and I straddled him so I could put flex cuffs on him.

  Robert shut the door and wedged it shut. He walked over to the girl and checked her for a pulse.

  “She’s gone,” he said. “The hallway is full of smoke. That should hold them off a couple minutes. You call the girls yet?”

  I keyed my microphone. “Searchlight. Searchlight. Searchlight.”

  “On the way,” Casey answered almost instantly.

  “Five minutes out,” Jack said.

  I looked at my watch and was astounded to find only twelve minutes had passed since we entered the basement of the house. It felt like hours.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Marshall said.

  Unbidden, Dale’s wicked Gerber knife appeared in my hand. The handle was tacky with the dried blood of the man I’d killed downstairs. I pushed the blade under his nose.

  “You want to talk about mistakes? I’m the Portland cop that you framed. Remember me? Remember the detective your son beat so bad she almost died? That’s her brother over there. Now you tell me who fucked up?”

  Marshall was very still.

  “I have money.”

  “I don’t care about your money. I’m supposed to leave you alive and able to talk, but that doesn’t mean I can’t slice parts of you off. You can talk without a nose.”

  He went silent, but I didn’t make the mistake of thinking he was cowed. Marshall was used to being in control, and I figured he would do anything to get that control back.

  “We need to get rigged up,” Robert said. He reached down and plucked the FuBar tool from my back pack. Then he turned so I could take the rope bag and a nylon harness that was attached to his bag.

  Robert took the harness and started strapping it onto Marshall. The bedroom had an attached bathroom. I walked over to the common wall and used the FuBar tool to bust a hole the size of my fist all the way through the wall near the floor. I pulled the rope out of the bag and pushed it through the wall. I walked in the bathroom and tied the end of the rope around the tool, and set it on the floor. Now when tension was placed on the rope, the FuBar would jam across the wooden studs in the wall.

  “They’re coming,” Robert said.

  I looked out the window. The doors to the airplane hangar were open and an old farm pickup truck was bouncing across the sagebrush, headed right towards our window.

  “Smashing,” I said.

  “Dent. Robert,” Dale’s voice crackled over the radio. “Confirm you are all in that corner room?”

  “Yes.”

  I heard a thump, then a scream from out in the hallway.

  “They’re getting close,” Robert said.

  As if on cue, a pair of shots splintered the room’s door. Robert pivoted and started dumping rounds right back.

  I opened the window and tossed the rope bag out. The pickup executed a three-point turn on the lawn below, and backed up right under the window. Casey and Alex bailed out of the cab and pointed their guns toward the house.

  Robert’s rifle ran dry.

  “I’m out,” he said.

  “Go.” I pointed my rifle at the door but held my fire. Robert’s fusillade seemed to have given the opposition pause, so I decided to conserve my ammo. Marshall was squirming around on the floor, so I put my booted foot on his ankle and bore down.

  “I need you to talk, not walk. Hold still or I’m breaking it.”

  He went still, for the moment.

  Robert and I were both wearing nylon harnesses around our waists. He clipped onto the rope with a carabiner, wiggled through the window and rappelled down right into the bed of the truck, just like we’d planned. I hauled the rope back into the room.

  Somebody pushed on the door, which now had enough bullet holes in it I was afraid it would fall apart. I shucked my pistol, fired two rounds to give them something to think about, then holstered it.

  I clipped a carabiner to the nylon webbing wrapped around Marshall. He started squirming.

  “I’m not doing this!”

  Instead of arguing, I punched him in the temple. The gloves I was wearing had hard plastic over the knuckles, so it didn’t even hurt. He wasn’t exactly limp, but he didn’t struggle either as I lifted him and stuffed him through the window head first. He dropped a few feet and smacked against the siding, but I caught the rope and lowered him down. He started screaming halfway down.

  Somebody banged on the door again, and I heard wood splintering. I forced myself to ignore it, and lowered Marshall the rest of the way, the muscles in my back screaming. He wasn’t a light man.

  Robert caught him and unclipped the rope.
I turned, drew my pistol and dumped the magazine at the door. There were holes in the wood the size of my head now. I re-holstered, clipped on to the rope and struggled to get through the window. Between the rifle and the bulky vest, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.

  I managed to get my legs through and was hanging onto the window sill when somebody started shooting. A bullet hit the window sill right next to my hand and splinters hit my cheek. Another round hit my goggles and everything went black.

  Instead of doing a proper rappel, I just slid down the rope. Even with the gloves, my hands burned. I dropped into the bed of the truck on my ass hard enough to send a shock all the way up my spine. I pulled the goggles off.

  Casey hit the gas, and I stood back up again. I was still clipped into the rope that was tangled in a mess around me.

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!” I yelled, and she stood on the brakes. A gun barrel poked out of the window I’d just left and a shot bounced off the cab of the truck. Robert started shooting his pistol as I frantically tried to unclip from the rope. It was a hopelessly tangled mess.

  I grabbed Dale’s knife and just cut it. I flopped back into the bed of the truck when the rope parted.

  “Go! Go! Go!”

  Casey stomped on the accelerator and we bounced across the lawn. I managed to get the knife sheathed without stabbing myself or anybody else. So far, the only people shooting at us were inside the house. Star-shaped muzzle flashes winked from the windows, and occasionally I would hear the hiss crack of a bullet passing overhead. I got to my knees and looked over the cab of the truck. The Stryker vehicle was moving to intercept us, but at the breakneck speed we were going, I didn’t think it would catch us.

  Casey zigged and zagged across the sagebrush, swerving to avoid the bigger clumps that could hang up on the undercarriage. She drove to the north, up the slope where we’d left Dale. The old truck fishtailed and bucked, and it was all I could do to hang on. Marshall nearly bounced clean out of the truck bed as we went over one particularly nasty bump. Robert and I both grabbed a fistful of his harness with one hand and the bed rail with the other. I knew if I lived through this, I was going to be sore.

  “I see his strobe,” Casey said as we crested the ridge. She slewed the truck around and stopped. Dale blinked a red light at us from fifty yards or so away.

  “Babysit Marshall,” I said, and Alex jumped out of the cab.

  She drew her pistol and pointed it at Marshall.

  “If you move I’ll shoot you in the knee cap,” she said. “I’m a doctor so I can keep you from bleeding to death, but it’ll still hurt.”

  She scared me sometimes.

  Robert and I scooped up Dale and carried him to the bed of the truck.

  “Nice shooting,” I said as we loaded him up.

  “Thanks,” he said, then groaned. “Fuck this hurts.”

  Behind us, I heard the heavy diesel engine of the Stryker full of FBI agents as it flattened brush. I also heard the sound of the Little Bird’s rotors.

  “Our ride is coming. Let’s go,” I said.

  Alex hopped back in the cab and Casey stomped. She drove over the top of the ridge, working her way between trees so close they scraped both sides of the truck. I figured it was a matter of time before we got stuck, but we popped out in the open. Casey pointed the nose of the truck down the steep slope and gunned it. The back end of the truck hopped around, and for a second I thought we were going to turn sideways and roll, then she got it pointed down again. We were headed towards the flat open area where we’d parachuted in.

  The ride smoothed out for a few seconds and I thought we were home free. Then with a bang, the truck stopped so quick the back end lifted up in the air, pitching me, Dale, Robert, and Marshall into the back of the cab. I saw stars and tasted blood.

  Over the sound of the hissing radiator and Dale moaning, I heard Casey say “I totally did not see that rock. I’m sorry.”

  “Everybody out!” I yelled. Everything hurt, but I forced myself to move anyway. I picked Marshall up and dragged him out of the truck. Casey and Alex each grabbed one of his arms and started marching him toward the drop zone, while Robert and I carried Dale, stumbling and cursing through the sagebrush.

  The Little Bird dropped into a hover. Dalton was strapped to one of the bench seats on the side, and lowered a rope that was attached to the bottom of the aircraft. Six glowing chemical lights were attached to it. Each marked a heavy carabiner looped into the rope. I helped Robert lower Dale next to one, then ran over to where Alex and Casey were struggling with Marshall. Even though his hands were tied behind his back he kept twisting and turning as they tried to hook him up.

  I walked up, put a hand on each shoulder, pulled him forward, and kneed him in the belly. He sat down on his ass and I clipped the D-ring onto his harness. Then I checked that Alex and Casey were clipped in properly. Alex surprised me by giving me a quick peck on the lips.

  Next I ran down the line and checked that Robert and Dale were hooked up, then attached myself to the last ring.

  The Stryker appeared on the ridge top, like some kind of squat, angry beast. A searchlight lit us up, but so far there were no incoming bullets.

  I was wearing a harness made of nylon webbing around my waist, two straps running on the inside of my thighs. I reached in my pants, adjusted my testicles so they weren’t trapped under the webbing, and gave Dalton a thumbs up.

  What we were doing was called a Special Patrol Insertion/Extraction or SPIE for short. It had been developed as a way to get recon teams out of thick jungles of Southeast Asia. I’d trained this in the Rangers and actually enjoyed it. Now I would be happy just not to die.

  Jack pulled the helicopter straight up, and all in a line, our feet left the ground, our weight suspended from the harness and the three-inch thick rope hanging from the bottom of the helicopter. Jack had the touch, I left the ground gently, then when Dalton told him we were all off the ground, he poured on the power, gaining altitude and speed.

  We rotated slowly clockwise, and I stuck out my arm, trying to stabilize the group with a little bit of success. The harness wasn’t comfortable exactly, but it didn’t hurt too bad.

  I realized the first rays of the new rising sun were breaking in the east. I looked up the rope at the rest of my team above me, and it finally sunk in that nobody had died. I laughed out loud, partially out of relief, partially out of manic exhaustion.

  Chapter 29

  We landed in Rudder’s pasture, scaring his cows one last time. Jack set us down easy, but Robert collapsed as soon as his feet touched the ground. In the waxing dawn light, I saw the bottom of his left pants leg was soaked in blood.

  “You’re hit, man,” I yelled over the racket of the helicopter.

  “Don’t mean nothing,” he said and pulled his pants leg up. There was a neat hole on one side of his calf and a neat hole on the other side. Blood oozed out.

  “Didn’t tumble,” he said and pulled a combat dressing out of his vest. I helped him get it wrapped up, and pulled him to his feet. Now that we were all safely on the ground, Dalton detached the rope from the Little Bird, and Jack flew over to the barn. Casey was casually pointing her pistol at Marshall, while Alex bent over Dale.

  “Is it wrong that I really want to shoot him?” Casey asked as I passed.

  “Nope,” I said. “Just try to hit him in a spot where we can control the bleeding.”

  Marshall was still hooked up to the SPIE rope and had his hands flex cuffed behind his back, so I figured he wasn’t much of a threat at the moment. There was vomit all over the front of his shirt. Apparently, the ride hadn’t agreed with him.

  Rudder’s old farm truck bounced across the pasture towards us. We loaded everyone in the back for the short ride over to the bunkhouse. Dale looked ashen and tried to stifle a moan every time we went over a bump. As soon as the truck came to a halt, Alex rolled up his sleeve and gave him an injection. He relaxed almost instantly. We picked him up and carried him inside where Alex h
ad set up a makeshift infirmary before we launched this little adventure.

  Alex went to work with Dalton’s help. He was a competent medic in his own right, so I was a third wheel.

  I walked back out to the truck, where everyone was eyeballing Marshall.

  I nodded at Henry and Jack. “Will you guys keep an eye out for Burke? I’ll take Marshall where he needs to go.”

  They nodded and walked off. I took Marshall’s arm, and lead him through another door in the long, low bunkhouse. We’d shoved the mattresses against the walls. There was a single chair with a video camera pointed at it, and a desk off to the side.

  “Is this where I’m supposed to confess?” Marshall asked with a sneer.

  I handed my rifle to Casey. She slung it over her back and kept her own rifle at hand.

  I forced Marshall to the ground. I replaced the zip ties with a pair of metal handcuffs and methodically cut his clothes off with a pair of EMT shears. I took his shoes off, then stood him up.

  “You’re all going to pay for this,” he said. He looked at Casey.

  “Make sure and get a good look,” he said.

  “It’s no big deal,” she said, and held her thumb and forefinger up, about an inch apart.

  Marshall gave her a dirty look, and I pulled him towards the other door in the room.

  “Hey, what’s that?” Casey asked from behind us. I turned and saw her bend over to pick up a USB thumbdrive off the floor.

  “My insurance policy,” Marshall said. “I had it in my underwear.”

  Casey put the thumb drive on the chair, and wiped her hand on her jeans.

  “It’s encrypted,” Marshall said. “You can’t get into it.”

  “Challenge accepted, nasty old dude, as soon as I find some disinfectant.”

  I opened the door and marched Marshall through. This room was smaller. We’d covered the floor and walls with clear plastic. There was a chair chained to a ring screwed into a stud in the wall and a small table. On the table were various things we’d rounded up around the farm: branding irons, a cordless drill, a small propane torch, rusty pliers, and the piece de resistance, a Henderson cattle castrating tool.