"Shut the fuck up."
"They say the FBI has some of the best snipers, you know, ex-military guys. Experienced guys," Dwyer said. "I've been told they train to shoot the eyes out of their target. You ever seen a guy after a high caliber bullet blasts through his face? Shatters an eye and rips through the skull blowing a hole the size of a baseball out the back of his head. Well, have you?"
The kid took a couple of more steps.
Dwyer looked at Kelly Paul
"Now," he said.
Chapter 36
When Dwyer yelled now, the kid started to react, and then it was too late. He was about to step closer to Dwyer when he saw Kelly Paul move. Maybe he was confused. Maybe he didn't know what was happening and he just wanted to strike out to one of them. He was looking at Kelly Paul. However, that wasn't where he was going. His body was moving toward Dwyer.
Kelly was ready and jumped when Dwyer gave her the signal. She didn't pause, just reacted, focused. By the time she picked up the pail, it was like things were moving in slow motion. He was raising his arms. Lifting them toward his face. Making a fist with both hands. He was probably thinking he could hit one of them, maybe both. He was turning to Kelly Paul. Twisting his body toward her. But he was caught off guard, all out of position. His legs were facing one way and his weight had him off balance. His momentum had shifted from forward to sideways. Physics refer to this as speed and velocity. Speed is the rate at which an object covers distance. He was moving fast coming toward Dwyer. Velocity is the rate at which an object changes position. The kid was turning around. Looking at Kelly Paul. Dwyer saw this because he was observant. He could see the kid had never played football.
Kelly Paul was holding the pail. It was full of vile stuff. She had used it earlier to relieve herself. She had done what Dwyer said. Smash the fluorescent tube and scoop the shattered glass into the pail. She had poured the festering blood from the cooler and mixed it up in the pail.
Action, reaction. Kelly Paul was lifting the pail straight up. Her rate of speed was fast. She was in good shape, reflexes were sharp and she moved smooth. It was about waist high when she changed velocity. Switched to a forward motion. She was holding it right. Left hand on the top of the pail around the rim. Guiding the direction. Right hand underneath holding the weight. By the time she had it waist high, it was too late. The kid didn't know how to move out of the way. He had committed himself. He was out of position. She was using her back. Getting as much muscle into it as she could. The pail was moving faster. She extended her left arm. Her right followed through the motion. The kid realized what was about to happen. The neurons in his brain were shooting off firing a billion times a second. But it was too late. He was right in front of her. The wrong position and his mind knew it but the body couldn't react. Her arm completed the throw and in a millisecond the muck hit the kid in the face.
He was blind. Frozen with shock.
She threw the pail at his head. He didn't see it coming. It sounded like an aluminum bat. A hollow ping. It smacked him hard and flipped into the air.
The stuff stuck to his skin.
He went down on one knee. Shaking. His hands covering his face. He coughed, kind of choked. There was a terrible smell in the air. His hands started to move. The natural reaction is to wipe away anything from the eyes. It's disturbing, unsettling to not see. He began scraping the stuff off his face. He thrashed about, started screaming. Spitting stuff out. He was cut. The razor fine glass was cutting his skin. The more he tried to wipe away the mess the more he bled. The more the infected mass entered his skin, stinging, burning, poisoning him. Blood ran down from his forehead. It looked bright red against the brown mixture. Blood ran into his eyes. The kid screamed. He froze, didn't know where to go. He was quivering, didn't know what to do. His arms were twitching.
Kelly Paul moved fast. Circled around behind him. Bent down and came back up holding the shotgun. It was a Mossberg 12-Gauge, pump-action. Incredible stopping power at close range. But at close range the spread of the shot is only a few centimeters. This meant Kelly Paul still had to aim accurately to hit the kid. She pointed the gun at him.
"Where are the keys?" Dwyer yelled. "The keys.” “Now."
The kid stood up. Trembling, his fingers playing in the muck on his face.
"I'll count to three. Then she's going to kill you," Dwyer said.
The kid looked at Kelly.
Kelly Paul looked at Dwyer. Not sure if he was serious.
"One."
The kid scraped the away the blood and shit faster.
"Wait," he yelled.
Kelly Paul had the shotgun aimed at his chest.
"Two."
The kid spit something out of his mouth. He opened his eyes. White, orbs peeked out. He looked at Kelly Paul.
"My father taught me how to shoot Skeet when I was a kid. Shot all the way through college," she said. "You want to try me?"
She pumped the shotgun, once. The sound was loud. Echoed in the barn. She leaned forward ready to shoot.
"Okay," the kid said.
He reached into his right pant pocket and came out with the keys. He looked down at them for a moment. Tossed them toward Kelly Paul. They landed two feet from her. She glanced down, saw them. Kept the shotgun trained on his chest.
Everyone froze. Time stood still.
"Back up," she said.
The kid took a few steps back. He was about ten feet from Dwyer. Fifteen from Kelly Paul.
"Move and it's over," she said.
She bent down, picked up the keys. Kept her eye on the kid the whole time. She moved behind Dwyer. Unlocked one of the handcuffs. It swung free attached to the other cuff. She gave him the keys. Took a step away from Dwyer and raised the gun to shoulder height. The shotgun pointed at his head. Dwyer undid the other handcuff.
Dwyer looked down at his wrists. Ran his fingers over the red welts. Stood up and looked at his knife strapped to the kid’s leg.
The kid was standing, picking out shards of glass from the muck on his face. Used the back of his sleeve to wipe his face clean. The stuff was smeared down his neck and on his arms. His mouth was shut tight, eye angry.
"That's my knife," Dwyer said.
The kid nodded. He was thinking. Considering his options between Dwyer and Big Red. Even worse, what Beau Redell might do? He had no choice but to give up the keys. The knife was his last chance to escape.
Then he smiled. Leaned down on his right side. Unclipped the knife. It was a quiet sound. But loud in the tension of the room. He held it by the handle. The blade by his side. Staring at Dwyer, daring him to take it.
Dwyer was good with a knife. Most people aren't. They think they are because they watch TV. They've seen knife fights in the movies. It looks easy, harmless, no blood. But Dwyer knew better. The first one cut, the first to die.
Dwyer was taller than the kid, bigger than he was too. The kid was thin, young, inexperienced at close fighting. Dwyer had seen the best, trained with the best. Understood the mental anger that is needed to kill. He had killed with a knife. He was betting the kid hadn't.
He saw the kid’s eyes. Nervous, panicked, trapped. Saw the look on his face beneath the mess. Dwyer knew the look. He'd seen it before. He was prepared to fight.
Dwyer had to get the knife from the kid quickly before someone watching the camera might see what was going on. He wrapped the metal handcuffs around his right hand. Made a fist with the metal running across his knuckles. Balled up his left hand. Raised them to his face.
The kid moved around in front of Dwyer, shifting from side to side. Waving the blade in and out. Short jabbing motions. He was getting warmed up.
They were ten feet apart.
Chapter 37
Dwyer turned sideways. Smaller target than facing the kid square on. Left fist in front of his face. Maybe six to eight inches away. Elbows tucked in. Good fighters know to protect the face. Hands held low are slow to move. His right fist with the handcuffs was tight against his face, re
ady to block a blow to the head or torso. He squeezed his knuckles tight. Hammer fist. Didn't want to break his fingers. Foreheads and cheekbones are hard. Harder than knuckles. When you hit something that hard you want to make sure your fist is solid, not loose so the force transfers to the object you contact.
The kid moved from side to side. Poking, jabbing. Stuff running down his face. This was new for him. Dwyer could see it in his eyes, scared.
Dwyer glanced at Kelly Paul.
"Guard the door," he said.
Kelly Paul moved around them. Twenty, thirty feet away she was watching the kid. The shotgun pointed at the door.
Dwyer was up on his toes. Legs loose to move fast. Weight forward. Favoring his left. He jabbed fast for the kid's head. The shortest distance between two objects is a straight line. Dwyer threw a straight left jab. The kid moved back. Dwyer was testing him. Seeing how he moved. Seeing what would cause him to react.
He let the kid move forward. Knife down; low around his waist.
Dwyer shot a quick jab at the kid. Hit his forehead. Not a boxer’s jab, but a karate blow. The first two knuckles of the fist landed flat on his head. It was a power punch. Straight shot. Any deviation from a straight line means loss of power. This was straight like an arrow. Two things are important when throwing a punch. First, pressure of the punch. Force of the fist divided by striking area of the fist, equals power. The smaller the striking area of the fist like the first two knuckles means harder striking force. The second one we all know, velocity. How fast the fist is moving. Dwyer was fast. For a big man, he was fast. Faster than the kid expected.
The kid's forehead took the hit. The kid didn't know enough about moving with the blow to reduce the impact. He stood firm leaning forward. His head snapped back. His eyes kind of rolled a bit. A two-inch gash opened above his eyebrow. Deep. He staggered backward. Dizzy
The stinging cut bled.
A string of red ran down his face. Dripping off his chin.
Dwyer recoiled. Ready to spring forward with the next blow.
The kid came straight at him jabbing with the knife.
Dwyer arched his hips back. The blade missed. Dwyer threw another jab. Hit the kid's mouth. Felt his knuckles squash the flesh part of the kid's mouth, fattened his lips. Then danced back out.
The kid was desperate, swung wild. Missed. Kept coming foreword. Kept missing. Backed Dwyer up to the chair. Dwyer threw an overhand right. The fist with the metal handcuffs wrapped around it. Connected on the kid’s cheek. Cut it. The cuffs scraped against the kids nose. Cut it. A short deep cut across the bridge. His nose was broken. His face was red. Bloody. Swelled up quickly.
The kid started to go down. His knees buckled. Queer street. Caught himself. Came up swinging, slashing.
Cut Dwyer on the side.
A short clean slice four or five inches at a right angle below his ribs. Burning. Dwyer put his hand on the wound. It felt wet, slippery.
The kid was smiling. He saw the blood. But he was an amateur. He was looking at the damage. Should have been looking at Dwyer's fists.
A double left jab connected with the kids face. His broken nose opened up. His eyes were watery. He stepped forward. Dwyer caught his leg with a foot sweep. The kid didn't expect that. He was looking at Dwyer's fists. Should have been looking at his feet. The kid was off balance. Started to go down. Dwyer unraveled the handcuffs. Used them as a whip. Shattered the kid’s knife hand. He dropped the blade. Dwyer looked at it. Thought about it. But decided to place his hands on the back of the kid’s head. Pulled him foreword. Brought his knee up. Smashed his face. Then again, and again. His nose was flat. Eyes were closed. Dwyer dropped him. His head banged hard on the ground. A moan came out when he landed. He was unconscious. Face was a mess. Nose and sinuses fractured.
Dwyer looked to his left at Kelly Paul.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded. Looked at the kid. He wasn't moving.
"Stay focused on the door," he said.
The kid was on his back. Dwyer grabbed him under his arms and lifted him up. Kind of dragging him to the chair. He snapped the cuffs on his ankles and wrists. Tugged on them to make sure they were tight.
Dwyer walked to the knife. Picked it up from the ground. He was looking at it when there were sounds at the door. Trouble. Beau Redell's men were outside. The door started to open.
Kelly glanced at Dwyer. Then looked back at the door.
Dwyer looked at the door. Didn't have time to look at Kelly.
The shotgun went off. The bang was loud. He saw the recoil. Lifted Kelly's arm up a few inches.
Dwyer ran to her. Pulled her by the elbow.
"This way," he yelled. Ringing in his ear.
He pulled her to the back of the barn. It was dark. They heard men yelling into the barn. They were yelling for the kid.
Dwyer and Kelly Paul were standing with their backs to the wall. Dwyer looked around, left, right, up. Then he turned around. Behind them was a window, boarded up.
"Shoot a hole in the window," he yelled. "Right there."
He was pointing to the center of the window. He covered his ears.
Kelly fired. Blew a hole about five inches across in the wood. Bright light shone in. They could see the blue sky.
"Again," he said.
She stepped back about ten feet. Fired again. This time the hole was bigger. Splintered the planks.
Dwyer moved foreword. Reached up with both hands and pulled the wood away. Then another piece.
He inched his head out. No one was there.
"Come on," he said. "Give me your foot."
Dwyer bent down. Locked his fingers together. Kelly stepped up, placed her right foot in his hands. He hoisted her to the window. Kind of threw her out. She fell on her side. Not hurt. Scrambled to get up. Dwyer was right behind her. Landed on his feet.
They heard footsteps. Then gunfire from inside the barn.
Dwyer grabbed Kelly by the hand. Pulling her as they ran north. Straight back from the barn. The shortest route is a straight line.
Dwyer saw a wooden fence. Bales of hay. They headed for cover. It was maybe forty feet away. They were panting, breathing hard, sweating. Adrenaline pumping. They ducked behind the haystacks. Dwyer peeked around the corner, looking at the back of the barn. He could see Big Red looking at him. Mean eyes, angry eyes.
Chapter 38
The phone rang. Beau Redell was in the farmhouse. He was walking through the living room when he first heard it. He stared at it. Stood still waiting for it to ring the second time. It did. The room was dark. Not pitch black but grey dark. Thick drapes blocked the light. He'd seen the fight in the barn with Dwyer and the kid. Watched it on the monitor. He'd seen how they gassed him with a pail of vial muck. He knew about gassing. He'd worked at a correctional institute. He'd seen it happen. It was an act of rebellion by prisoners. It's the act of throwing feces, blood and urine at prison staff.
He heard the first shotgun blast. Turned his head toward the sound. Distant, muffled. He heard Big Red order four of his men to follow him to the barn. They ran past him carrying guns. Alert, stern, worried looks on their face.
The phone rang again.
Beau Redell picked it up. Had a bad feeling in his gut. Placed it on his ear.
"This is lead negotiator, John Bingham from the Florida State Police," Bingham said.
Redell reacted. His face twitched. Hung the phone up and stood frozen for an instant.
There was a second shotgun blast.
Redell reacted. Dashed to the monitor. It was sitting on a desk. He tilted the screen. He was standing; didn't have time to sit down. The camera panned the room. Inside the barn was lit up. Brighter than before. The chair came into view. It was the kid. Handcuffed. Bloody. The camera moved around the room. Dwyer and Kelly Paul, the prisoner, were gone.
There was a third shotgun blast.
Redell went to the window. Pulled the drapes back. Maybe two or three inches. Stood behind them, hiding himself. S
tared intently across the field. Saw movement by the trees. Then more movement. A group of men were racing toward the farm. They were dressed in dark clothes, SWAT team style, carrying weapons. Semi-automatics and nine-millimeter pistols. Moving fast. He counted nine.
A blast of sirens to his left. He twisted his neck, stretched it. Pushed his face against the window to see the side road leading into the farm. Cars, unmarked were pulling onto the road. Behind them a trail of dust. The police. A car had stopped out by the mailbox. Two guys got out. Doors open. Standing behind them for protection. Rifles aimed at the house, snipers.
Beau Redell went to his office. Not running but moving quickly. Had to go through another room first. Saw two of his men, bobbing and weaving at a window. He walked past them. They were busy, scared. Rifles in their arms. Didn't look at him. He kept on moving down a hallway.
He was alone in the back of the house. To his left, the hallway continued to the back door. He stepped into his office and closed the door behind him. Locked it. It was a small bedroom he had converted to his private workspace. A desk, two chairs, a couch. A large map on the wall detailing the roads surrounding the farm. Walked to the closet. It was locked. A stainless steel padlock. He opened it. Pulled something from a hanger.
Redell heard a noise at the back door. He was surrounded. Nine guys on foot approaching from the south, to his right. Vehicles on his left, full of armed men in the front of the house. Behind him, the backdoor was being rammed.
He heard a pounding noise at the back door, wood breaking.
Beau Redell had changed his clothes. Dark clothes. Finished tightening the gun holster and held a Glock in his right hand.
He heard another loud thumping. Then wood cracking.
He unlocked the bedroom door and inched it open. Saw two guys coming through the broken door. Dark clothes. SWAT style.
They were fifteen feet away. Moving cautiously.
Redell had his back to the wall so he could peek through the cracked door. He was flush against the wall. The two guys were to his left. Both men were fit, tall carrying semi-automatics. They were smaller than he was but it didn't matter. This wasn't about size. It was about speed, surprise and the kill.
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