by Ted Galdi
“You bitch,” he shouts.
She wriggles free from him. Scurries toward her gun. Just before she grips it, he tackles her. His bulk crushes her back. He flips her over, his face inches from hers. The nearby beam of her loose flashlight puts a soft glow on him. His nostrils flare.
“What do you want from me?” she asks.
He undoes a button on her shirt. “I just want you.”
She attempts to poke him in the eye again. He catches her wrist with one hand, sticks a gun against her throat with the other.
“Try that again and I pull the trigger,” he says. “Don’t move.”
She closes her eyes. Feels him undo a second button on her shirt. His hand lowers to a third. “You piece of shit,” she yells. And tries to roll out from under him.
“What’d I tell you about moving?”
Footsteps.
His hand stops on her third button. The gun leaves her throat. She opens her eyes. He is looking over his shoulder at another man’s silhouette rushing through the darkness.
Parooh. Her attacker fires his weapon at the second man. Who dives out of the way. He charges at her attacker’s legs, knocking him to the dirt. They wrestle. Grunting. Rolling. Her attacker’s shooting arm frees. He aims at the second man. Who kicks the gun out of his hand. Then kicks him into a tree, his head whacking the bark. Both men stand. Her attacker reaches back to throw a punch. The second man reaches back too. In the shred of visibility from the flashlight, Jordana sees the shine of metal near his hand.
An axe.
Her eyes jump to his face. Tommy. He whips the axe forward. Its blade cuts into her attacker’s throat. His head sags toward his shoulder. A near decapitation. His body plops to the ground.
She stares at the bloody, dead face. Then sits up. And pants for a while.
“Hey,” she says.
The sound of the wind. The sound of a bird.
“Hey,” he says.
“Why’d you come here?”
“Thought it might be unsafe for one person.”
“Guess you were right.”
“Guess so.”
He sticks the axe handle in his waist. Nods at the corpse. “Who’s he?”
“No clue.” She nudges the dead man over and slides a wallet from his back pocket. Pulls out a driver’s license. “Curtis Hawks.” She rifles through the wallet. Her fingers stop. “A VA insurance card. US Army. He’s a vet.”
“Working with the other two?”
“Had to be. They probably sent him here to check out the property for cops before they showed up. Then he saw me. And…got distracted.”
“Won’t be getting distracted anymore.”
A pause. “About the phone call earlier, the things I said to you, I’m sorry—”
“So am I. As for…this…what just happened…you okay?”
“Nothing happened. It almost did.”
“I’m sure you would’ve figured out a way to stop it on your own. You were off to a good start. I heard him screaming. That’s how I knew where to go.”
“I got him in the eye pretty good. Maybe I would’ve gotten away. Maybe not. Either way…glad you came.”
He kneels beside her. Removes a phone from the dead man’s pocket. “Let’s see what we got.”
“Anything from Brent or Archer?”
“Shit. Need a password.”
“Let me see.” He hands it to her. She eyes the screen. “Option for a thumbprint.” She clasps the dead man’s wrist, navigates his thumb onto the screen. Unlocks it.
“Slick.”
She opens the text-message history. “Nothing.”
“Brent and Archer’s MO. How about calls?”
She taps the screen. “A bunch today. No saved contacts. Must be other burners.”
“When was the last one?”
“One forty-four AM.”
“Did you get here before or after that?”
“A little after.”
“That means he didn’t tell Brent or Archer about you yet.”
“No.”
“Which means they still might show up.”
“Which means we’ve got to go.” She stands.
He does too. “Or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Text the number from his last call. Got to be Brent’s or Archer’s. Say the coast is clear.”
“Tommy.”
“There’re two of them left. There’re two of us left. If the FBI refuses to end this, we will.”
“They…don’t even text each other.”
“He’s some new addition to their crew. It’ll be understandable if he slipped up and sent one text.”
“This won’t be a fair fight. You saw them in the warehouse. You know what they’re capable of.”
“I also know what you’re capable of. You saved my life in that junkyard in Mexico.”
“Los Hombres del Vacio didn’t have decorated military backgrounds. These two are much more dangerous.”
He’s quiet for a while. “I’m more like you than you’d want to admit. Or, you’re more like me than I’d want to admit.”
“Okay?”
“My point is, I know me, I know you. And I know if they came here and we didn’t do anything about it, and they got away, we’d never forgive ourselves.”
“Maybe.”
“No. Definitely. We might not regret it today. Or tomorrow. Or in a month. But…eventually.”
She puts her hands on her hips. Stares into the woods.
“What’re you thinking?” he asks.
“If I think about the flames, I’ll get burnt. Right?”
He grins. “Right.”
“So anything but them.” She leans forward and grabs her flashlight. Then her gun. She cocks it. “You’ll need one of these.”
Seventy
Jordana opens the trunk of her Blazer to a couple crates of tactical supplies. She hands Tommy a gun. Then grabs a bulletproof vest and says, “I only have one of these.”
“You take it.”
“But—”
“Non-negotiable. It’s yours. Put it on.”
She does, then tucks a handful of zip-ties under a strap. “Make sure you’re careful. I don’t want to see anything…happen to you.”
He checks the time on his phone. 2:56 AM. And jumps up and down a couple times, psyching himself up. “Let’s get at it.”
She climbs in the driver’s seat of the Blazer, he the passenger’s. They drive onto the grass. And stop a couple hundred feet behind the barrack. She turns off the engine, the black vehicle blending into the blackness of the rural night.
They watch the service road. A drop of sweat falls off Tommy’s cheek, lands on the leather of his seat. Headlights emerge on the horizon.
“Here we go,” he says.
“That’s them?”
“Who else would it be?”
“What’re they in?”
“Looks like a Prius.”
“Where’d they get a Prius?”
“We probably…don’t want to know.”
The Prius winds along the service road. Turns onto a path through the trees. And creeps onto the field toward the front of the barrack. It stops. Two male silhouettes exit.
“Yeah, that’s them,” Tommy says.
“What’re they holding?”
“Rifles.”
“They had pistols at the warehouse. We have pistols. Why do they have rifles?”
He places his hand on her knee. “It…doesn’t matter. Don’t think about what they have. Okay?”
She takes a deep breath. “Okay.”
The barrack’s rear window lights up. Movement inside.
“They’re in,” Tommy says. “Now. Go.”
She starts the engine. Nails the gas pedal. They rip toward the barrack. She hooks the car around the front, thumps the brake, then backs up toward the doorway. The Blazer’s hatch butts up against it, sealing most of the opening.
“Ha,” she says.
“These a
ssholes are trapped now.”
She puts the car in park. She and Tommy leap out. They roll toward the nose. And crouch, clutching guns.
“FBI,” Jordana shouts. “You’re under arrest.”
No reply from the barrack.
“Open the front window,” she says. “Throw your weapons out on the ground.”
The window does not open.
“What’re they doing?” she whispers.
“Hold on.”
He inches his head upward. And peeks into the window. “They turned the lights off.”
“Why’d they turn the lights off?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s nobody in there for them to shoot. What the hell is their endgame?”
“Just to…escape I assume.”
“How does shutting off the lights help?”
“Be quiet for a sec.”
“Why?”
A few moments. “You hear anything?”
“No. Why?”
“The back window. It’s small. But they could squeeze out of it. You sure you don’t hear it opening?”
Neither speaks for a bit.
“Nothing,” she says.
“I’ll go to the rear. Watch it. You keep your eyes on the front. We—”
“You insane?”
“What if they try to sneak out the back?”
“You’d be in the middle of an empty field there. Without a vest.”
A pause. “You’re right. We at least need a visual on them. I can’t see shit from here.”
“How do we get a visual?”
“We get closer. Watch them through the doorway. If they make a move toward the front window or back, we’ll have a shot.”
“We can’t just go up to the doorway. We need the car for cover.”
“We can do both. We go in the car. Get to the trunk. Use the hatch for cover.”
“We’ll be right up in their grill. And they have those rifles. We—”
“I thought we were done talking about the rifles?”
“Let’s just…wait it out. It’s different now. They’re here. Right here. Wichita will play ball. She’ll send backup.”
“Can’t hurt. But we’re in the middle of nowhere. At three AM. Once she okays the backup, it’ll take a while to get here. We need to keep them trapped until then.”
“Fine. You…I agree.”
“You got this, Jordana. We got this.”
“Yeah. Okay. Okay.”
“If they get out either window, it’s their long-range rifles versus our pistols in the open. All we need to do is contain—”
“I thought we were done talking about the rifles?”
He grins. “Right.”
“Speaking of containment.” She opens fire at the Prius, blowing out the two tires facing them.
“Nice.”
“Trunk on three.” She holds up one finger. Then a second. Then a third. They dive into the Blazer. And hurry over the headrests into the trunk. Her supplies rattle, clink.
“You good?” he asks.
“Good.”
“Stay low.”
“I know.”
“Call backup.”
Her index finger jabs at her phone. She says into it, “I’ve got them. They’re like ten feet away from me. The farm thing was real. Send everyone.” A few moments. “I’ll explain later.” She ends the call. “Wichita’s mobilizing all available units.”
He nods. “Give me a cover shot. I’ll stick my head up, peek in.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
She aims at the doorway. Pulls her trigger. The bullet splinters the windshield on its way into the barrack.
Tommy’s head springs up. He peers through the broken glass. The idling Blazer’s taillights bleed a red hue into the barrack’s darkness. Jutting out from behind a metal dresser are two rifle barrels.
Tommy ducks back down. “Near the wall to my right.”
“What now?”
He thinks for a few seconds. Then shouts toward the doorway, “If you try to climb out the front window, we have an easy angle to shoot you. If you try to climb out the back window, we have an easy angle to shoot you. Even if you got lucky and somehow made it outside, we already blasted your tires. This is over. Throw down your weapons. I spent time in prison. It sucks, but dying is worse.”
He listens for the sound of a dropped rifle. It does not come. Instead, he hears the crack of glass. Slivers of windshield hit his face. A heavier object hits his thigh. A metal canister rolls near his leg. White smoke sprays from it.
“Tear gas,” Jordana screams. She closes her eyes, sticks her hand over her mouth and nose, and climbs over the headrests.
Through the cloud, he sees her legs sliding out of the car. He follows her, his chest plummeting to the grass. The white smoke wafts out of the car with them, rising toward the black sky.
A sound from the barrack. Tommy looks toward it. The front window is opening. Two heads behind the glass in gas masks. He lifts his pistol toward them. Before he can shoot, a blinding heat consumes his eyeballs, as if hot sauce were rubbed on them.
“Shit,” he says. The heat expands into his throat.
He hears Jordana choking. “The smoke,” she says. “We’ve got to get away from it.”
He runs toward her voice without seeing her. Nothing visible but a white haze, sporadic black flashes.
A rifle shot thunders through the atmosphere. Hotness in Tommy’s rib. A different kind than the tear gas’s. He topples.
“Tommy,” Jordana says.
He groans, writhes on the grass. “One of them shot me.”
“Where are you?”
He pushes himself to his feet.
“Follow my voice,” she says.
“My gun. I dropped my Goddamn gun. I need to find—” He coughs. Tastes blood coming out of his mouth.
“Leave the gun. We need to get to cover.”
Another rifle shot booms. He braces for his own death.
A miss. All the smoke must mean subpar visibility for them too. He staggers toward Jordana’s voice. Her hand finds his. “I have you,” she says.
She runs. He keeps pace with her. His legs feel tingly. So do his arms.
The chemical stench in the air lightens. A foggy visibility emerges. The shape of the Prius. The shape of Jordana. She drops to the grass. Crawls behind the car. He does the same.
“Oh my God,” she says, rolling up his shirt.
“Is it bad?”
She winces. Rolls the shirt back down. “Do you—”
A bullet annihilates the Prius’s front windows.
“Jesus,” she says.
Glass shards fall through Tommy’s collar, down the skin of his back.
“Dammit,” she says. “Looks like they’re trying to get into the Blazer. The engine’s still on. Keys are in it.”
“You have a shot on the driver’s seat?”
“Yes.”
“Let them know it. Keep them back.”
She blasts four rounds. Then takes cover. They shoot back, the car rumbling.
“I put one right through the driver’s headrest,” she says. “Took out two of the tires.”
“Good. But they’ll still try to get away on flats.” He reaches his arm through the broken window of the Prius, unlocks it, and opens the backdoor, revealing a medley of gear Brent and Archer stashed. “Yes, I knew it.”
“What’re you doing?”
“We’ve got to get the keys. And I need something to block me.”
“You’re…what? You can’t go over there.”
He coughs up more blood. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
He searches through the backseat, finds a folding metal table he assumes they planned to prop the dead farmworkers on when removing their organs. “Perfect.”
“Go behind me. Then we go right at them.”
“You’re pouring blood. You’re pale. You’re—”
“I’m fine.”
“Backup is on its way. And we know what car they’re in. We can just—”
“There’re woods all over. And we’re close to the Mexican border. If they get off the farm, they’ll dump the car. Go on foot. They’ll be gone.”
“We—”
The Blazer starts moving. “Shit, come on.” He holds the table like a shield. She gets behind him. He sprints toward the Blazer. She reaches around him, firing at it.
“They stopped,” she says.
“Shit yeah.”
A rifle round blares. A bullet tip imprints the table inches from Tommy’s face. A second shot strikes it, overpowering his grip. The table releases from his hands. “Get down,” he shouts.
They hit the earth. Tommy gazes up at the SUV. Brent is in the driver’s seat. Archer hangs out the passenger window aiming his rifle at Jordana.
A gunshot.
Then silence.
Archer’s big body falls out the window. Jordana must’ve gotten a round off first. He lies face down in the grass.
“No,” Brent screams. The Blazer charges at her.
She jumps out of the way. “Ah.”
“You all right?” Tommy asks.
“Just my ankle. Twisted it.” She tries to stand, falls back down. “Bad.”
Brent stops. Leans out the window. Aims his rifle at Tommy. He picks up the table. Blocks the bullet. Jordana shoots out the Blazer’s other two tires. Brent turns to her. Tommy pulls the axe from his waist. Leaps on top of the car, slams the blade into the roof.
Brent’s barrel surfaces from the driver’s window. Angles toward Tommy. He kicks it, the rifle flying out of Brent’s arms. His head vanishes back into the car. It begins moving. Picks up speed. Veers toward the path in the trees to the service road.
Tommy remembers Jordana had a taser in her trunk. If he can slip through the broken back windshield, he can grab it and take out Brent. Tommy lets go of the axe handle, grips the edges of the roof. He shimmies toward the back.
The Blazer goes faster, wobbling from the deflated tires. Tommy ekes ahead. The Blazer goes faster. Too fast for Tommy to reach the taser. He clings to the roof, just trying to stay on. Wind crashes into his face.
Brent hits the brake. Tommy catapults off the car. He’s airborne for a couple seconds, then his right shoulder crashes to the terrain, his collarbone snapping. “Son of a bitch,” he says.
The glare of headlights. The Blazer barrels toward him. He rolls away from it. His leg doesn’t make it. A wheel runs over his shin. He screams. Yanks grass from the ground.
