Blackout

by Chris Ryan

  Now the three men walked in silence: the track was too rough to use a car or a bike. Josh was using a stick to relieve some of the pressure on his leg, but he could move with freedom. I'm not goingto let it slow me down, he kept telling himself every time he felt a bolt of pain shooting up his spine.

  He sensed excitement in O'Brien and Morant as they reached the gas station. They were just waiting, he realised, for the right moment to teach the Feds a lesson about who controlled this land.

  'He'll be here in a moment,' said O'Brien, as they circled

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  round the patch of scrubland at the back of the Texaco station. 'He usually stops between 12.30 and 1.00.'

  'And he usually takes a leak,' said Morant. 'Weak bladder, I guess.We'll take him there.' He chuckled to himself.'Always wanted to smash up a Fed bastard with his trousers down.'

  Josh stayed silent. Now he could see a Ford Taurus pulling up at the station, the driver climbing out and starting to fill his tank. The man was around thirty-five, with sandy brown hair, and a dull, undistinguished face, already starting to run to fat around the cheeks. He was wearing grey slacks and a beige short-sleeved shirt.

  'Motherfucker,' muttered Morant under his breath. 'Thinks he can come down from Washington and start snooping around our town.'

  The man put the gas pump's nozzle back into its holder, then walked towards the gents'. Josh was sitting behind two huge plastic rubbish bins, filled to overflowing with the debris from the station: half-filled cups of coffee, and the remains of the micro-waved burgers sold inside. The smell -was mixing with the fumes of gas and diesel and the odours drifting across from the toilet to make Josh feel queasy. Get this over with, he told himself. / can't stand the stink much longer.

  The door slammed shut on the toilet.

  The three men moved out onto the forecourt and stepped into the gents'. It was painted grey, with white tiles running halfway up the wall and Texaco logos above the sinks. The man was standing with his back tp them, pissing into the urinal. Josh took a quick glance at him, making a rough mental calculation of his size, weight and strength, then worked out the force of the blow that would be needed to take him down. The man glanced back, nodded, then looked back at the urinal. Josh curled his fist into a ball and drew his arm back, coiling the pressure in his shoulder muscles. Then he released his punch.

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  The blow landed on the side of the man's neck. The muscles there were loose and relaxed: the man had had no warning of the attack and so had done nothing to prepare himself. The breath was forced out of his windpipe, making him choke. At his side, O'Brien had prepared another blow, delivering his punch straight to the gut. Next, Morant's boot smashed upwards, colliding with the agent's groin, sending a vicious bolt of pain searing up through his body at the same moment that all the oxygen emptied out of his lungs. Still gripping his penis, some urine still trickling from it, the man crumpled to the floor. Josh reached down, grabbing the man's throat and squeezing the air out of him. He could see the agent's eyes closing as shortage of oxygen to his brain made him lose consciousness. But suddenly his eyes were open, staring straight up at Josh, and his hand was clutching at Josh's leg, tearing away at the bandage underneath his jeans, jamming the cotton into the raw wound. Josh bit his tongue to stifle a scream as the pain ripped through him. 'Fucker,' he gasped. He drove his fist hard into the side of the man's face. The agent slumped backward and his hand fell away as his head slammed against the floor. A slow trickle of blood had started to seep down the side of Josh's leg. 'Not much fight in the fucker, is there?' snarled Morant. 'Let's cut his balls off, mand hang them on the door. A warning to the others.' Christ, thought Josh. I know the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all that. But these guys are bloody nutters. Josh took a tissue from his pocket and stuffed it inside the man's mouth. Next he took a roll of duct tape and started to bind up the man's mouth and hands. 'We'll stuff him in the can,' he said. 'This time of night, it should be

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  a couple of hours at least before anyone finds him. That gives us enough time.'

  Gratuitously, O'Brien smashed his fist into the man's gut again, making his unconscious body jerk. 'Why aren't we killing him?'

  'Because if you kill a Fed, you'll get the whole bloody FBI coming down to the town, that's why,' snapped Josh. The pain in his leg was terrible, his head was starting to ache again and his temper was about to fly out of the room.

  'Bring 'em on,' muttered Morant. 'Bring 'em on.'

  'Fucking liberal,' said O'Brien, glancing towards Josh.

  'Christ, let's just get out of here,' said Josh angrily. He grabbed the agent by the shoulders, heaving his body up. 'Hold his legs,' he snapped at O'Brien. He watched while O'Brien took the man by the legs, then they bundled him towards the toilet cubicle. 'Let's go,' said Josh.

  O'Brien and Morant followed him out. Josh paused on the step, checking that no one had seen them. It was 12.45 a.m. now, and the forecourt was empty. The clerk sitting at the desk was the only person there, and he was watching the TV next to his desk. There were CCTV cameras, but they were trained on the cash desk. Nothing was recording people coming in and out of the toilet.

  'You get in the car,' hissed Josh. 'I'll pay the bill.'

  He had taken the jacket off the agent and put it on himself.

  'We're not paying for the fucking Fed's gas,' snarled Morant. 'We should have just killed him.'

  'Right,' said Josh. 'And you think we can drive out of the gas station without paying the bill and nobody will notice? Get in the car.'

  Christ, thought Josh. It's a miracle these morons have stayed out of jail this long.

  He walked swiftly towards the cash desk, checking that O'Brien and Morant had made it to the car. I'm taking a risk, he told himself, but a manageable one. Chances were

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  the kid on the cash desk hadn't bothered to look at the man as he stepped out of the car and headed to the loos after filling up. And I'm wearing the guy's jacket. So long as the petrol is paid for he'll be happy enough.

  They drove in silence from the gas station to the Sheriff's office. All three of them were recovering their breath after the fight. And they were focusing on the battle that lay ahead.

  A battery of spotlights was shining down from the front of the Sheriff's office. Josh pulled the Taurus up on the street outside, switching off its lights.

  He could feel the nerves in his stomach starting to get jumpy. Of course this was risky, but he had to find out who he was. Morant had assured him that the police station was lightly manned at night: one patrol car and one duty officer. Even so, this town was crawling with agents. It was impossible to know for sure how many people might be in there.

  And he was worried that the officer Marshall had beaten up might be there. If so, he would certainly recognise Josh.

  I'm taking my life in my hands.

  Josh took the wallet from the Fed's jacket he was wearing and looked down at the ID. The name on the badge was Arnie Canestra, FBI Agent Number 2234B. There was a picture, but it was tiny. The memory of the heavy security around the building that he had encountered the other night was still fresh in his mind: they were going to have to make this act convincing if they hoped to get away with it. Let's just hope that O'Brien and Morant don't get any smart ideas.

  'You stay in the car,' Josh said, looking at Morant. 'Keep the engine switched off, or it will attract attention. But keep it ready to move. We might need to get out of here in a hurry'

  An Italian-American, thought Josh as he stepped towards the entrance to the Sheriff's office. Agent Canestra. Maybe I should talk like Al Padno.

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  'Walk quickly,' whispered Josh to O'Brien as he stepped through the doorway. 'A man walks quickly through any building, people assume he's doing something important. They are going to be nervous about stopping him.'

  The corridor was painted pale cream. There was a duty desk, empty at this time of night. The corridor was lined with pictures
of men on the wanted list: rough-looking characters, Josh noted, with pinched, violent faces, full of malevolence and anger. / wouldn't be surprised to see either O'Brien or Morant up there along with the rest of the losers and psychopaths.

  'This way,' he said softly. Josh walked briskly towards the back office. He could feel his pulse racing. Last time he'd been here, he'd been chased away by a helicopter. So far as he could see, the place looked a lot quieter this evening. Or maybe it just appeared that way.

  The corridor led into a large open-plan room. A lingering smell of sugar and coffee filled the air. About twenty desks were arranged opposite each other, all made from the same cheap wood, each with a regulation grey bin at the side. One cop who looked like a local guy was sitting alone at a desk close to the entrance. Another pair were checking their revolvers before heading out on a night patrol. It looked like there were only three of them.

  In my jeans and T-shirt I don't look much like an FBI agent, thought Josh. But in the middle of the night, I'll pass.

  'Agent Canestra,' he said, showing his badge, his tone clipped and purposeful as he nodded towards the one cop sitting at a desk. The man, nearing fifty and with a balding head, was looking down at a pile of papers, ticking boxes one by one.

  'Need to check the computers,' continued Josh.'That okay?'

  The man glanced up, grunted something that Josh didn't catch, then went back to his work. Us Feds aren't very popular around here, Josh figured. Treading on their turf, and

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  nobody likes that. He noticed the other two cops clock him as they left to go out on patrol.

  He chose a desk in the far right hand corner of the office. So far, so good, he told himself with quiet satisfaction. There's a chance I might get away with this.

  O'Brien followed him as he sat down, bringing up the opening page on the computer. His eyes started scanning down the rows of files. It took a few minutes to start navigating his way around the system. There were files on local laws, state laws, and federal laws. Procedural files and training files. Budgets and duty rosters. All of it operated from the same central database. Josh couldn't be certain, but it made sense that the local police would keep files on every murder case in the county. And the most likely place to keep those files would be on the computer.

  'Open files,' said an icon on the screen.

  Josh clicked on it. A list of names scrolled up onto the screen. Josh started scrolling through them alphabetically until he found what he was looking for. Lippard. 'Open,' he commanded the computer with a click of the mouse.

  Josh started reading. The main report told him little that he didn't already know. Ben had been shot between eleven and twelve on the morning of Monday, June the first. Four bullets had been found in his body, fired from a Smith & Wesson Mountain Lite revolver. No trace had been made on the gun, nor had the weapon been found. There were no witnesses to the shooting, and the police had so far identified no leads and had no suspects.

  Just like I thought. They are groping around in the dark.

  Tiny jabs of pain were starting to hammer the inside of Josh's leg. He glanced down and saw that blood was dripping from the side of his thigh. It had seeped into the cloth of his jeans and was trickling down onto the tiled surface of the floor. A tiny trail of red droplets was leading from the doorway to this desk. He glanced anxiously at the cop in the corner.

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  He was standing up. He can't miss it, the bastard, thought Josh. Even the drowsiest cop has to see a trail of blood leading through his own office.

  I haven't got much time.

  He scrolled further through the files, his fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard. Against the back of his neck, he could feel O'Brien breathing heavily. 'Quick,' O'Brien muttered. 'All these cops are making me uncomfortable.'

  Three words flashed up: 'The Third Man.' Josh clicked on the file, bringing the Word document up onto the screen. He glanced anxiously towards the door. No sign of the cop.

  Josh started reading. 'Crime Scene Report, 6/1/05: Report File No: 34521DF. Reporting officer: Dick McNamara. Traces of blood were also found at the scene of the crime, just a few yards away from Lippard's body. Initially that was assumed to be Lippard's blood, but a test showed that it belonged to another person. The blood sampje was sent to the National Crime Laboratories in Washington for DNA analysis. The NCL replied three days later. They had identified the person, and were awaiting security clearance before releasing the name and details of the person to the Boisdale sheriff's office.'

  The third man? thought Josh, sitting back in his chair and staring intently at the screen. Security clearance? Christ, what the hell am I doing in this country?

  'What did you say your name was again?' said a voice behind him.

  Josh spun around. ^

  The cop was looking straight down at him.

  His face was puffy and tired, but the message in his eyes was clear enough. He had decided that Josh was not who he said he was. Now he was weighing up what to do about it.

  'Agent Canestra,' snapped Josh.'This is my colleague Dave Freemantle. We're busy, if you don't mind.'

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  'You don't look like Feds,' said the cop, delivering his words slowly. 'You've got a weird accent. And there's a trail of blood leading from the doorway to your desk.'

  I've got two choices, figured Josh, his mind tabbing quickly through the available options. I can bluff my way out of this. Or run.

  He's probably already called in reinforcements. Maybe that's why he disappeared for so long. That patrol car has probably turned round and is on its way back now. He just wants to keep me talking until they show up.There's nothing to gain by trying to talk my way out. Run, man, while you still have the chance.

  'Like I said, we're busy,' snapped Josh, his tone rising.

  'Then what about the blood?' asked the cop.

  Josh's elbow snapped backwards, crashing into the side of the cop's jaw. Josh could feel his bone striking against the other man's, the point of his elbow joint digging deep into the soft flesh of the policeman's cheek. At the same moment, O'Brien drove his fist into the man's neck.

  The cop reeled, then regained his balance. There was more strength in him than Josh had expected: he was a big man and his rolls of flesh turned out to contain as much muscle as fat. His hand slammed down on the desk, steadying himself, then his knee jerked upwards, smashing into Josh's chest. He could feel his ribcage vibrating with the impact, a bolt of pain shooting out into his body. Josh stepped backwards, steadying himself, then swung his leg forward, driving it hard into the cop's side. Then O'Brien gripped his neck between his forearms, jerking it backwards, and Josh could see the man's face turn red.

  Josh heard a snapping sound. Christ, is that his neck breaking?

  'Punch him out,' hissed O'Brien. 'Punch him out.'

  Josh drew back his fist. He could see a look of fear flash across the cop's face. He was wriggling like a fish on a hook, but O'Brien's lock on his neck was strong.

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  I'll make it quick, pal, thought Josh. You're better off with me punching you out than you'd be with either of these other head cases.

  Josh punched first with his right hand, then with his left, delivering a swift uppercut straight below the cop's jaw. A trickle of blood started to seep from the man's mouth and nose, and his eyes closed.

  'He's out,' snapped O'Brien.

  'Then let's get the hell out of here,' said Josh.

  He started moving swiftly towards the street door. It was ten yards away, and some blood was flowing more freely now from the opened wound on his leg, spattering the floor with more red droplets. They've got my DNA already, even if they don't know who I am. They will know that the third man has been here. And they'll turn over every last grain of sand in the desert to find me.

  The sound of a siren ripped through the quiet of the nighty sky. Josh lunged towards the doorway, looking out along the road. He could see Morant waiting in the Taurus. The car swung out i
nto the road to meet him. But up on the main street, maybe three hundred yards away, Josh could now make out the patrol car accelerating towards them, its siren wailing and its warning strobe sending arcs of blue light spinning out into the night sky.

  'They're bloody onto us,'Josh shouted, throwing himself into the passenger seat of the Taurus. Behind him, O'Brien was slamming his own door shut.

  'Just bloody drive,' yelled Josh. ^

  Morant was gripping the steering wheel of the Taurus hard. His foot slammed down on the accelerator as the car sped out onto the road leading out of town. Josh glanced behind him. The patrol car was already ramped up to full speed. It was travelling at a hundred, maybe a hundred and ten an hour, gaining on them with every second.

  'Faster,' he muttered under his breath.

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  I've assaulted their office, and punched out one of their own men. They're not going to be in a mood to take any prisoners.

  'I'm going blindfold,' Morant warned. He switched off the headlamps, plunging the road ahead into darkness. The patrol car was throwing off some light, but that was still two hundred yards behind them. This far from the town there were no more street lamps. Josh could see nothing ahead, not even the curve of the road.

  He gripped the side of the seat. This was going to be a rough ride.

  Looking across at the speedometer, he could see the Taurus gaining pace. It was hitting a hundred and twenty an hour, and Josh could hear the engine straining as it struggled to gets the revs it needed for that kind of speed. Another glance back. The patrol car was still gaining. A hundred yards behind, figured Josh. A hundred and fifty if we're lucky.

  'The fuckers, they're fast,' shouted Morant, a gleeful wild edge to his voice.

  'Cross-country,1 shouted O'Brien from the back seat.

  Josh couldn't be sure whether it was a question or a command.

  'Hell, yes,' shouted Morant, struggling to make himself heard above the roar of the car's engine.