FireWatch: A Jack Widow Thriller

by Scott Blade

  No! It was broken. He saw that the frame of the door had been bashed in. The lock was completely shattered. And the ends of the door were split and splintered. It looked like someone had used a small grenade on it or a mine.

  What was it that the game his son played called it? A breaching charge?

  The deputy reached for his gun. He unsnapped the safety buckle and brandished his Glock. He chambered a round and aimed it at the backdoor.

  He reached up to his shoulder mount and scooped up his radio.

  He clicked the button and said, “Ramas! Come in!”

  Ramas was the other deputy who was either still working the county in his patrol car or he was napping, parked somewhere secluded. Either way, he was not off the clock. No way.

  The deputy waited. There was no answer. He tried again. No answer. He tried a third time. No response.

  This time, he heard a strange signal echoing back at him from the radio, a cacophony of radio sounds. It sounded kind of like when he called up to the stationhouse and someone was using the fax machine. Like a whirring, static sound, only a little abrupt. A little more aggressive. And very annoying.

  He clicked the button on the radio again.

  “Ramas! Come in!”

  Nothing.

  “Ramas!”

  No answer.

  He looked back up at the drone above. It hovered a little higher. It moved back over the lot. He thought about shooting it.

  He watched. The drone wasn’t hiding its location. It was right there in the open, in plain view.

  Suddenly, a thought passed through his mind. A thought that turned into fear. And he felt his heart pumping. His blood pressure spiked.

  He asked himself one question. What if someone was using a radio jammer?

  Why not? He had already seen evidence of a breaching charge and a military spy drone.

  He decided not to wait any longer. He burst through the backdoor. Pushing through the shattered wood and the splintered metal shards from the lock. He swept the back entrance. He saw no one. He walked over more broken wood from the backdoor. He stepped past a series of unused lockers, past a set of long benches. And he turned a corner to see the bullpen.

  He came face to face with four masked men and Portman.

  Portman was on his knees. He was restrained by two of the men, while one of the others stood in the dead center of the room. The fourth sat on the deputy’s desktop. His feet dangled off the edge.

  The man standing in the center of the room, in front of Portman, held a black leather SAP. Which was a vicious blunt weapon, similar to a blackjack, only flat and crafted with leather.

  It was a weapon that was not too big and easy to conceal. In the right hands, it could do massive damage to a man’s skull.

  This one was thick on the beating end. It looked worn, like it got plenty of frequent use.

  The guy holding it must have pounded Portman on the top of the head with it more than once, because there dark, violent bruises were welling up all over Portman’s forehead and face.

  Blood dripped off the end of the thing.

  All five men, including Portman, stopped and stared at the deputy. He pointed the Glock at them. He trembled and the barrel shook in his hand. They could all see it.

  “Freeze! Let him go!” he called out, without dithering.

  The guy holding the SAP stopped, turned and faced him.

  “Drop the weapons!” the deputy said. He looked at all four of the men and saw what he thought to be AR-15s and sidearms. They were well equipped.

  The guy holding the SAP didn’t drop it. And neither did the others. None of them even made an attempt to make it look like they were even considering it.

  “Take off the masks!” the deputy called out.

  The man holding the SAP reached up, slow so as not to get shot, and with one hand, he pulled his black ski mask off, revealing his face.

  He was Hispanic.

  He said, “Look at you!”

  “Drop your weapons!”

  The guy holding the SAP was the leader. He said, “Where’s Molly Lee?”

  “Who?”

  “Your prisoner! The wife who kill her husband in the fire! Where is she?”

  The deputy noted that the leader spoke with a Mexican accent.

  He looked at Portman’s office, a natural, involuntary look. The leader followed his gaze. He said, “So, she was here. Thank you.”

  “Drop your weapons! Let him go!”

  Just then, the leader spoke in Spanish. Which was his native language.

  The deputy was debating on whether to just start shooting. But that was quaffed because right then he realized the leader was speaking Spanish to two other guys who stood behind him. He knew this because he felt the muzzle of a gun on the back of his neck. It was pressed hard. The muzzle hole was unmistakable. Suddenly, he was overcome with images of bullets. And the trembling became worse.

  “Drop the pistol,” the leader said.

  The deputy paused a beat, but then he felt a gloved hand clamp down on his gun. The second man stepped up and forward and took his Glock away. He jerked it out of his hand and stepped back.

  The leader barked out a command, again in Spanish. And the deputy felt himself being shoved forward. He stumbled over to Portman.

  “All we want is the wife. We don’t want you. We don’t want to kill cops.”

  “She was in there!” the deputy said. He pointed at Portman’s office.

  “Shut up!” Portman shouted at him.

  The leader smacked him, backhanded with the SAP. Portman spat blood and a single tooth out of his mouth.

  Then the leader folded up the SAP and stored it in one of the cargo pockets on his pants. He unholstered his Glock. The suppressor was still attached. The deputy looked at it. For an attachment that was manufactured to be silent, the symbolism of seeing it was deafening in the stationhouse.

  The leader smiled at the deputy, and said, “You know. You’re the lucky one.”

  “What?”

  The leader shot him in the gut. The muzzle flashed. A reverse cone of fire spit out. Followed by a single bullet.

  The bullet tore through the flesh and organs in the deputy’s gut. Blood the color of oil gushed out. And the deputy toppled over, clutching at the bullet hole.

  He screamed in pain.

  The leader stayed where he was. In Spanish, he ordered the two men behind the deputy, to lift him and drag him closer. They did.

  The leader grabbed a tuft of Portman’s hair and jerked his head up.

  “Take a look at him,” the leader said.

  Portman looked.

  “He will bleed out, slowly. Unless you tell me what you did with her.”

  The deputy cried out.

  Portman said, “Go to hell!”

  The leader said, “I’m from hell. It’s our home. Amigo.”

  Portman stayed quiet.

  “You may not care about your cop. But eventually, we’ll find someone you do care about.”

  NOT TOO MUCH EARLIER, Portman had watched DEA Agent Ryman pull away in his Chevy Tahoe from his Crown Vic. Then he pulled around to the back of the stationhouse. He picked up a brown paper bag from off the seat and walked inside. He kept the bag folded up underneath his arm. He told his deputy to take a break. He waited for the deputy to pull away from the stationhouse and drive off.

  Portman went into his office.

  Molly Lee sat on a black leather sofa, parked along the side wall. She had been cuffed out in front of her.

  Portman unlocked her handcuffs and returned them to his belt. He handed her the paper bag.

  “Get dressed. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  She looked up at him. Hope in her eyes. She asked, “You believe me now?”

  She had told him the whole story. The DEA. The fire. All of it. At least, he hoped all of it. She had told him the truth about what her husband was into. She didn’t think that he would believe her, but he did.

  “I just got
a visit from a DEA Agent.”

  Lee’s face turned to one of complete fear.

  “Who?”

  “A guy named Ryman?”

  “He was Mike’s partner.”

  “That was your husband’s partner?”

  She nodded.

  “Is he into what Mike was into?”

  “I think so. Probably.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s no way he would get here this fast unless he was already here waiting. Like he already knew about Mike being dead.”

  “What am I going to do?” she asked.

  “First get dressed.”

  “Then what?”

  “Just get dressed,” Portman said.

  He left the room and paced the bullpen, waiting. He tried to come up with a plan. But it was all happening so fast. And there was no time. If he was going to protect her, then he had to act. How was he going to get her out of there? How would he explain it? How much time did he have before Ryman drove out to the prison and saw that there was no Molly Lee turned over to them by his station or that there was no one with that name even incarcerated?

  The more he thought about it. The worse it played out for him. No matter what he did, he was going to get in trouble for it. He couldn’t turn her over to the FBI, the DEA, or the US Marshals. Not now. If Ryman was dirty, if what she told him was true, then there was no telling who would be monitoring his communications, or his next moves. So far, no one suspected him of helping her. He had to act fast. Had to act now.

  Molly Lee walked out of his office. She was wearing her own clothes, a long-sleeved cotton knit shirt, a pair of cargo pants, and a winter vest, not too thick. Just some random stuff he had grabbed out of her backpack. She had told him not to get anything out of the duffle bag. She had told him that her backpack had more appropriate clothing. The duffle was filled with feminine items and personal items that she had packed the night before, when she had planned to leave Mike, and not planned on him being killed.

  “What do I do?” she asked.

  “Is there anywhere you can go away for a while? Someplace safe?”

  She thought for a moment and said, “I’ve got cousins. Up north.”

  “No. That won’t do. That’ll be the first place they’ll look.”

  Silence.

  Portman asked, “Where were you planning to go before the fire? You said that you were going to leave him. You packed a suitcase.”

  “I was going to leave him. Like I told you. I was just going to go to my summer job.”

  “What job?”

  “Years ago, I took a job to get away from Mike. To have some peace to myself.”

  “What?”

  “Every summer I work as a fire lookout.”

  Portman said, “Did Mike know that?”

  “Of course.”

  “And he was okay with it?”

  “He didn’t care what I did.”

  “What about Ryman? Does he know?”

  She thought for a moment and shook her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why would he? Mike never talked about us. I’m sure of that. And I don’t go by my name there. I use my maiden name.”

  Portman thought for a moment. And he said, “I don’t see that we have any other choice for the moment. We have to get you somewhere safe.”

  “How long can I last working out there? Won’t he find me through a government database or something?”

  “No. The government isn’t that efficient. The FBI could do it, but let’s hope he doesn’t have any contacts at the Bureau. “Besides, I’ll find a way to get you under protective custody by then.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you have any identification with your name on it?”

  “You mean Lee?”

  “Both?”

  “I have two driver licenses. I have one that says Molly Lee. And I still have an old one.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They’re both in the truck.”

  “What about a passport?”

  “That burned up in the fire.”

  “Give me your license.”

  “It’s in my suitcase. What about my Bronco?”

  “I moved it. It’s in a safe spot.”

  “My license is there.”

  He nodded and said, “Okay. Let’s go.”

  They walked out the back entrance and over to his patrol car. She got in and he followed. He fired it up and drove off.

  THEY MADE IT to the interstate and drove south for five miles until they came to a state-run rest stop. Portman drove down the off-ramp and lined up past two semi-trucks and circled around the lot one time to make sure that there were no prying eyes.

  Cars zoomed by on the interstate. Some driving south. Some speeding north.

  He parked the car right next to the old Ford Bronco and slipped the gear into park.

  Portman looked left and looked right.

  “It looks safe. You should get going. I need to be back before anyone walks into the stationhouse. Or in case the nine-one-one dispatcher’s office calls.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  Silence fell on them for a moment.

  She said, “I’ll be at the…”

  “No. Don’t tell me where. In case they try to pressure me, I won’t be able to tell them the exact truth.”

  “But won’t they figure it out? DeGorne is my maiden name. Someone will figure out that I’m using it.”

  “Don’t use your passport. Don’t register anywhere. No credit cards. No swiping. No filling out your real information. Not until I talk to you. We can probably get you into some kind of witness protection or something. You just need to keep your head low for a week or so. I doubt it’ll take longer.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Tonight, I’ll do nothing. I’ll give you a good head start to make it whatever direction you’re going. Then tomorrow I’ll make some phone calls.”

  “Who will you call? Who can help us? The Feds?”

  Portman shook his head, and said, “No. The Marshals. I’ll call them. When I figure out which of them I can trust. They’ll know what to do. Give me a week. And then call me directly.”

  He unbuckled his seatbelt, hitched himself forward and dug down into his back pocket. He looked like a bear trying to reach an itch. He pulled out a thick, worn brown wallet and opened it up. He took out a cheap business card on white stock and handed it to her.

  He said, “Call my cellphone three days from now. Directly. Got it?”

  She took the business card and looked at it. His cell number was typed on it.

  She wrenched forward uncontrollably and hugged him.

  “Thank you!” she said.

  He thought back to Vietnam. He thought back to her father.

  “It’s my job. To protect is part of the serve and protect.”

  She pulled away and smiled at him. A single tear welled up in her eye. He leaned forward again, reached his left hand down his leg for the second time that afternoon. He brandished his backup weapon. A silver snub-nosed revolver. He balanced it in his hand. Showed it to her.

  He asked, “You still remember how to use this?”

  “Of course.”

  He reversed it and handed it to her.

  “Don’t use it unless it’s absolutely necessary. Got it?”

  She stared at it and took it. With his index finger, he pushed the barrel away from him, pointed it toward the dashboard.

  “Keep it hidden.”

  She nodded.

  “Okay,” he said and looked at his watch. “You’d better take off. Don’t trust anyone that you don’t already know until you hear from me.”

  DeGorne looked at him and felt afraid. She liked being alone out in the wilderness, but here, among people, she felt a little afraid. She still had to make the drive to her post in northern California.

  She turned and got out of the patrol car.

  He shook the ke
ys to the Bronco at her and said, “Here. I took them out of the car.”

  She took the keys.

  “Give me your license that has Lee on it.”

  She nodded and went into the Bronco and opened up the glove box. She placed the revolver in it and sifted around for a couple of seconds for her license. After moving around the registration and two envelopes stuffed with maintenance receipts, she found both licenses. She looked at the most recent one and then the old one. The old one was expired, but she could still use if for an ID. And if the cops stopped her they’d be looking her up in a database anyway. She’d just drive carefully.

  In case she got pulled over for some reason, then at least she would have it for the cops to look at.

  She came back out of the Bronco and handed her new license over to Portman. He slipped it onto the console in his cruiser.

  “Okay. You’d better take off.”

  He paused a quick beat and then said, “You’ll need cash. Plenty of it. Don’t use credit cards.”

  He pulled out his wallet and stared at what he had, which wasn’t much.

  She smiled for the first time all day and said, “Don’t worry. I have plenty of cash.”

  He looked at her puzzled.

  “I was planning on leaving him. Remember? I took out all of my cash and packed it away. I have more than enough.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay. Wait for me to leave and then you take off. Call me in a week.”

  She said, “Thank you!”

  “Molly, your father was proud of you.”

  “He was proud to be your friend.”

  Portman nodded, took the gear out of park, switched it to drive and took off. She waited until he was lost to sight and then she fired up the Bronco. The gas gauge was full. She turned around in her seat. Her eyes scanned the rest stop around her. No one was watching. She pulled up one of her suitcases and unzipped it just enough to see in.

  It was all still there. Portman hadn’t opened it. Luckily, he had opened the first one. Which had her clothes packed tightly in it.

  The second suitcase had inside it a black garbage bag and inside that were stacks of cash. All hundreds. All banded together just the way she had left it. Which was just the way she had found it.