He was remembering ever step. Observing every route he took. If he had to come back through here on foot with Kelly Paul he would have to know where he was going. No landmarks that were easy to spot. No buildings, no lights and too far to see the truck stop. Not close enough to see the farm.
It became rough walking. Deep grass, lots of hills. Entered another cluster of trees. It was summer, so it was a warm night. He was starting to sweat.
On the other side of the trees and in the distance he saw lights. The farm.
He continued east, he thought it was east. Then he circled to the north. He saw a light above a barn; it was bright. Lights were on in a house, both floors. Five vehicles parked on the dirt driveway. He spotted the black Mustang. Saw a van parked by the barn. He estimated the distance from the house to the road; it was a good few hundred feet. He saw movement. Focused on it. Recognized it, the sentry was still there.
Something broke his concentration. He turned his head to the left. He caught a glimpse of movement to his side. This was closer. A dark shadow. Moving slowly along the field. Maybe eighty, ninety, feet away. Dwyer froze. He saw the shape of a rifle; it was a shotgun. Being held by both hands, loaded. Like he was ready to shoot something. The shape moved like he was hunting. Legs bent, swaying back and forth, scanning the area. Gun out in front. Dwyer dropped to his knees. Silent, stealth.
He kept his eyes trained on the shadow. At the same time his right hand felt for his knife. He slipped it out of its sheath. The black Ka-Bar with a black blade hid any reflections on the metal, less noticeable. The Tanto blade has advantages, a strong point, thick. Good for puncturing and stabbing things. Might not be as good as a drop point knife for skinning and carving. But Dwyer wasn't planning on skinning.
The guy was moving toward Dwyer. He was forty-five degrees to his left.
Dwyer was squatting down in the grass. He held the knife by his leg. Slightly in front so he could slash out quickly if he had to.
The crunching sound of grass under the guy’s feet got louder.
Dwyer didn't move.
The guy's breathing was noticeable.
Dwyer stayed still.
The guy was short. Maybe five-eight, kind of on the slim side. He looked young, twenty-something.
Dwyer waited till the guy was mid-stride and he stood up. Blocked the guy’s shotgun as he twisted right. The element of surprise was on Dwyer's side.
Dwyer's left hand was on the barrel. Pushed it down. The guy pulled back trying to point the gun at a body part. Dwyer stepped in and clubbed him with the butt of the knife and the fleshy part of his fist. Right in the center of his face. There was a crunch. The guy’s knees buckled. He started to go down. But he moved fast. He came up and in his left hand was a knife. It was a fixed blade knife, a drop point. Dwyer arched his torso back. Still kept his hand on the barrel. The guy had his hand on the butt of the shotgun. It was a tug of war with one hand. A knife fight with their other hands.
They moved in a circle trying to pull each other off balance. Dwyer had a good grip. The guy wasn't skilled with a knife; he was slashing in big circles. Dwyer had the right knife. He cut in then cut out. Puncturing the guy’s shoulder. The blade went deep, two inches maybe three. The guy grimaced and made a painful cry.
Now it was real. The guy felt pain. He looked scared. Dwyer saw something shiny running down the guys arm, coloring his clothes dark. Blood.
They feinted; slashing at one another. Pulling; darting in and out. The guy lunged in. Dwyer jumped back.
Dwyer jerked the guy off his feet. He stumbled backward. Dwyer jabbed forward catching his forearm. Then ran the Tanto point into the meat of his arm. Felt it nick the bone. Cut his way back out. The guy screamed. Lots of blood. Started dripping off his arm.
He started yelling for help. Dwyer had to silence him. The guy was cursing. Dwyer made his move. He pulled the guy forward. Then jumped back. He knew what the guy would do. It's a natural instinct. He would slash out in a big bold move. Dwyer ducked; let the knife go past him.
Dwyer hit the side of his chest with two quick short stabs. The blade entered between his ribs. He felt it hit bone. Probably piercing a lung. The guy did the only thing he could do. Tried to backhand a vicious blow. Dwyer ducked. Slashed his face. No blood at first. Takes a second for the skin to let go. The guy froze for a beat. A bubble of blood burst. His face opened up. Blood ran. It was a clean cut. On the diagonal from his forehead across his nose to his cheek. Blinding his right eye. Dwyer was doing the right thing, opening up as many wounds as he could.
Dwyer knew he had to kill him right now. If he continued to scream someone would hear him. He would be outnumbered. He couldn't fight off another. He was sweating, muscles tightening, exhausted. The adrenaline was pumping. He was breathing fast maybe hyperventilating.
Dwyer raised the blade. Stabbed downward into the guy’s chest. It went in deep. Between his collarbone and his neck. Then pulled the blade down across his chest opening a jagged cut deep to the bone causing as much blood loss as possible. The guy’s chest muscle was carved up. Dwyer saw the guy’s right side collapse. The blade came out just below his ribs. Then he slashed across the stomach opening it up. It was wide, from side to side. You can't survive that, stuff starts to ooze, slide out of the stomach. The final blow was an upper thrust under the guys chin. Stuck in the roof of his mouth. The guy stood still for a moment. Then collapsed. Dead.
Chapter 18
Dwyer paused in the field. Listening. No one had heard the fight. The guy had dropped his gun in the struggle. It was about two yards away from where he lay. He tried to hold on to it as long as he could. That was his mistake. There is comfort in having a shotgun in a fight. Especially if it's a knife fight. But you have to be able to use it. Dwyer was counting on him not letting it go. Guys with guns are taught never give up your weapon. They're too busy defending it to think about offense. But offense is what Dwyer was thinking about.
He put his knife back into its sheath and went for the gun. A weapon with which he was familiar. His uncle took him skeet shooting. Taught him the double pull. Taught him to shoot from the shoulder. Shooting from the hip, was never good, usually hit the target low.
It was a big shotgun. A Mossburg 590, 12 gauge. Expensive gun. Not the kind you would expect a farm boy to have. He picked it up. Felt heavy, solid. His uncle would joke about shotguns with six or more rounds. If you can't hit your target with one round you should be running, not fighting.
But it was the weapon he would need going up against homegrown terrorists, or whoever they were. He checked the underbarrel tube magazine. Fully loaded eight rounds. The gun was clean. He could smell the oil.
He stood over the body. There was a sound like he was breathing. Dwyer had heard about this from interviews he conducted with solders returning after a firestorm. Air escaping from the lungs of dead people. As the muscles relax, air comes out. Sometimes body fluids will run as well. The stink usually comes next. This guy didn't smell good.
He bent down, slowly. Onto one knee. Kept the shotgun across his chest and resting on his bent arm. The weapon gave him some comfort. He listened for sounds in the distance. Someone approaching, someone looking for the guard. Nothing. Leaning over the body he examined it before searching the guy. He could smell the guy’s blood. Almost taste it. He slid his hand down the guy’s pants. Felt something in his pocket. Eased his hand inside and grabbed a wallet. Brown leather, soft. Thick with cards. Dwyer opened it. Looked in the billfold. A couple of tens and a five. The left side of the wallet flipped up. The guy had a Georgia driver’s license; his name was Timmy Banning. Twenty-eight. Address was unimportant. Dwyer studied the face on the license. Then the dead guy. It was him. No fake ID. Looked at the cards. Five credit cards. Average American has five point seven cards. But this guy wasn't average. He was caught up in something. Something worth dying for.
He put the driver’s license and wallet back in the guy’s pocket. Searched the other pocket expecting to find a cell
phone, but nothing. The dead guy twitched. Gave Dwyer a scare; he wasn't expecting it. Dead people can do that; the nerves are still firing. This guy had spasms that kept jerking his arms and legs. Kind of like short bursts of energy. But all messed up, everything is misaligned. It's just random body parts jumping. The blood had stopped running.
Dwyer got up in a crouched position. Turned his back to the guy. There was no point in looking at him anymore. Didn't make him feel good. Some guys like admiring their kill, Dwyer didn't. He'd heard from guys in battle that their first kill is mystical; they want to see the damage. But when they see the mess, once is usually enough. In fact it was the wrong thing to do. You end up feeling sorry for the dead guy, lose your concentration. Get yourself killed. Instead he focused his eyes on the farm. Still nobody searching for the guard. He straightened up. Could see the ground was flat from where he was to the house and barn.
He was looking for a path. But there was nothing. He moved slowly. The grass beneath his feet crunched loud. He moved north away from the barn light. Approached the building from their blind side. If anyone was watching, he had the barn between him and the house. Every eighty feet he stopped. He reversed the situation. Pretended he was being hunted. Stopped and listened.
Dwyer ducked behind a tractor. Old, rusted. Looked like it had been sitting there for some time. He leaned on the tire. A big rear tire, maybe four to five feet tall. A good vantage point to access his next moves. He looked left then right. Listening. His concern was a dog. Farms usually have a few. Didn't like the idea of killing a dog. Found it more difficult than a person. He liked animals. You never see a dog in a bad mood. Man's best friend. He hoped they didn't have one. Maybe it would be in the farmhouse. He was about to move out when he heard something. Squeaky, rusty like a hinge that has seen the elements.
He saw the barn door open wide. He was over a hundred feet away. They started marching out, four guys. All carrying rifles. Dressed in camouflage, looked like military. Three of them had automatic weapons. One of them a machine gun, AK-47 style. Some had knives strapped to the legs. All of them had pistols. A dog followed them out. Kind of large, German Shepherd, tail wagging, not alert. Must have felt safe with the guys. Plus Dwyer was downwind. The last guy placed a beam over two metal brackets. Keeping the doors closed.
They stopped outside the door and huddled together. One of them had a flashlight. He was shining it in the field. Looking for the guy Dwyer killed. Going back and forth. Then he whistled. There was silence. Then they moved toward the house. Not talking, very quiet. Trained.
Dwyer stood still and watched them. He waited till they entered the house. Saw the dog enter the house. Moved north, approaching the barn on the dark side. In the shadow. He stopped with his back against the wood slats of the barn. Moved a few feet toward the window. Put his face against the glass and cupped his hands around his eyes. Blackness. The windows were boarded up. He walked around the back. It was a big building. He guessed about a hundred feet long. All the windows were covered. He put his ear to one. Listening for a sound from inside. Nothing.
He reached the back. Saw a door, tried it. Locked tight. He felt helpless. Breaking into a building not knowing what was inside was risky. Especially the noise it would make hammering down the door. The only logical way was through the front doors. The ones with the beam keeping them closed. The ones in the light.
He looked at the front doors from the corner of the barn. He felt his pulse begin to race. The adrenaline pumping. He moved forward out of the dark. He was in the path of the light. Anyone looking toward the barn doors would see him. He was in the open. No place to hide.
He inched along until he stood beside the beam. It was now or never. One of those moments Dwyer hated, taking chances. What if she wasn't there? Maybe he'd be better off hiding in the forest watching the door. Wait until sunrise. See who goes in; see who comes out. There were many options. He didn't have to do this.
He pictured Kelly Paul inside the barn, bound and gagged. Beaten, maybe raped; maybe dead.
He put his ear to the door, nothing.
He put the shotgun down on the ground. Close to his feet. Didn't want the weapon too far away.
He looked at the house, clear. Looked at the guard by the road, clear. Then lifted the beam up. It moved easy, no noise. He placed it on the ground. Didn't want to stand it up in case it fell over, might attract someone. Opened the door about two inches. Put his eye to the opening and looked in, blackness. Put his ear to the opening and listened, silence. Opened the door some more. Maybe a foot maybe a little bit more. Put his head inside. Sniffed the air, fresh paint. Possibly a few days old. Stood for a beat letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He saw nothing. Picked up his shotgun. Opened the door further. Stepped inside. Closed the door quietly behind him. Held his breathe and listened. It was hot, humid and full of human smells.
Dwyer moved to his left away from the door. His left arm cradling the weapon. His right arm out in front feeling the way. He walked maybe ten feet. Heard a noise in front of him, off to the right. Small animal, human, not sure. He stood still for a long second. Held his breath. Waited. Let the air out slowly. Lifted his left foot off the ground. Didn't want to drag it. Then his right. Took another few steps. Heard some wood creaking above him, the structure was cooling off from the sun beating down on it all day. Ignored it and kept pressing forward. It didn't feel right. He kept thinking about the lessons his uncle taught. If you have to retreat, always know a way out. He was thinking too much. Making himself nervous. He stopped and looked behind. He was spooking himself. The hairs on his arm were sticking straight up. He turned around. Could feel the presence of someone in front of him. The pit of his stomach felt tight, almost heavy. Gripped the gun tighter. Took another step. His senses were on full alert. Now he could feel someone behind him. His forehead was sweating. He was listening, didn't want to move fast, make any sudden noises. Might cause someone to panic. Couldn't see anything. Tried to breathe normal. Took a few more steps. Then it happened. The place lit up like an explosion. Brilliant, bright lights. He froze.
Chapter 19
Dwyer was caught. He was in the center of the barn. He was five feet from Kelly Paul. She was bound to a cross. He was surrounded by seven guys with guns. Dwyer let the shotgun go and slid it out of his arm onto the concrete floor. He looked at the faces staring at him. Mean eyes, hardened faces looking back at him. He felt his heart racing, beating hard in his chest. He could hear it in his ears. The dog was staring at him, alert, mean.
The guys stood in a circle around him and Kelly. Their weapons pointed at him. He glanced to his side. A few faces were smiling, gloating. They caught him easily. They were all dressed in camouflage. Baseball caps, well armed, and looking like a group of redneck hunters.
The men were all relatively young, thirties and forties. They were fit, mostly looked like big old farm boys, stout, round barrel chests but hard stomachs. They looked used to carrying guns.
One of the guys took the knife from Dwyer. Kind of ripping from his leg. Didn't take it out from it sheath. Didn't see the blood on the blade.
Dwyer looked right to Kelly Paul. She was alive. Had fear in her eyes. She was scared to death. Dwyer could see that. He didn't understand the cross thing. Why did they have her strapped to it? What were they doing to her? He was examining her, assessing the situation, being observant.
One man, big guy moved forward. Everyone followed with their eyes. He was fat, overweight, grinning. Dwyer could tell he was the leader. He took a stick of gum from his pocket and unwrapped it. He slid it into his mouth chewing on it as it entered. Kind of like a chomping machine, biting and sucking it back into his mouth at the same time. Crumpled the wrapper in his hand and tossed it at Dwyer's feet. Kind of flicked it at him. Kept his eyes focused on Dwyer and chewing the stick into a wad on the right side of his mouth. Dwyer stared back at him. The guy’s body was big, so was his face, round ruddy complexion and grinning. In the bright lights of the barn he looked pale l
ike he never saw the sun. His eyes were wide-open, big, full of excitement. Hair was short, crew cut, military look. He was about five feet away. Dwyer could tell the distance, one arm span. Dwyer thought about throwing a punch at him. Maybe his belly, maybe his face. He could reach him, make contact, get one good one in. Could give him time to put a forearm to his neck. Choke him but he wouldn't have enough time to do any damage. These guys would be on him in a heartbeat. Then there was the dog and Dwyer liked dogs.
The leader had his hands on his hips, staring into Dwyer's eyes.
"I'm Beau Redell," the guy said. "I'm in charge here."
A booming voice. Southern. Dwyer stared back at him.
"We gotcha. You didn't think it was gonna go down like this did you?"
Dwyer kept quiet.
"You betcha?" Redell glanced at his men. "You wanna tell us what you're doing here?"
Dwyer knew the fewer words he said the better. He had stumbled into something. Something organized, maybe political, cult-like, definitely militant. If he said too much they might end him right here. The less he said, keep them guessing, he might stand a chance to figure a way out of this.
"Name's Dwyer, Jack Dwyer," he said.
Redell stared hard into his eyes.
"You ain't a cop so what are you?"
"Just a guy having a bad day."
Redell grinned wider. Turned to his men. Started laughing. Shook his head.
"This guy might make it," Redell said.
"You're not a cop. Because if you were a cop you'd be running your mouth talking all kinds of shit. A big guy like you could pass for a cop. You took that shotgun from one of my men. So you know how to handle yourself. Ex-cop, military, right?"
Dwyer didn't say anything.
"War hero?" Redell asked. "You saved the woman this morning. Think you're going to walk in here and walk out with her just like that. Like a hero?" Redell was grinning. "You have no idea, Dwyer. I thought this through. Every step, every action, every reaction. The FBI, police, even the unexpected. Like you."
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