by BJ Bourg
I ambled toward Spencer, stopped a few feet away. He nodded when he saw me, told the person on the other end he had to go, eyed my bag. “I thought Tom said you already trained today?”
“I need to fine tune some areas, need to get my technique right.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Ready for the big fight?”
“Yep.” I looked over my shoulder when the front door opened. It was another boxer. I turned back to Spencer. “I need to talk to Tom.”
“He’s not here. Went home early. He’s not feeling good or something.”
I scowled—more for show—and shook my head. “That’s not good. I really need to talk to him about my training.”
“Is it something I can help you with? Not getting cold feet, are you?”
“No, it’s about that fine tuning.” I rubbed my chin, looked around like I was thinking, and then asked, “You don’t know where he lives? Maybe I could catch him at home.”
Spencer shrugged. “Not really. I heard him say something about living a few miles south of Seasville, down this long shell road. I think he said his house is the only one down there. He described it as a cabin or a camp—not really a house.”
I turned on my heel and headed for the door.
“Wait, aren’t you training?” he hollered after me, the confusion evident in his voice.
“I’ll be back.”
CHAPTER 42
One of the patrol deputies assigned to us—a kid fresh out of the academy whose name was Rex—had grown up south of Seasville and was familiar with the area Spencer described, having hunted it since he was a little boy.
Rex stood in front of my Crown Vic, his baggy uniform slacks and oversized polyester shirt flapping in the warm breeze, and drew a diagram of a road and a cabin in the dust on my hood. “It’s about three miles down the road and on the right,” he said. “I haven’t been back there in a few years, but I doubt it’s changed much.”
We loaded up again—Dawn jumping in with me—and Rex led the way down Highway Three. Once we’d driven ten or fifteen minutes south of the Seasville city limits, Rex turned right on a narrow shell road and slowed to a mere crawl. We traveled about a quarter of a mile before arriving at a large gate blocking the road and a weathered sign attached to it that warned it was private property and trespassers would be shot. Rex stopped inches from the gate and we all stepped out, took a cautious look around. A length of thick chain secured the gate in place and the ends of the chain were joined together by two padlocks—one bright and new, and the other old and rusted.
“What do you want to do, Chief?” asked one of the SWAT guys. He looked like an attack dog in his black garb, ballistic helmet, and low-riding holster, with his semi-automatic rifle dangling across the front of his body. His name was Larry. I’d met him a year earlier in the north part of the parish while investigating an officer-involved shooting. He hadn’t been the officer involved, but he was in the drug house during the gunfight. “I’ve got bolt cutters in the wagon,” he offered. “Just say the word.”
I mulled it over for a brief second, wondering if I should obtain a search warrant. I glanced around until I spotted Rex. “Who owns this property?”
“A friend of my dad’s. His name’s Mr. Bruce Keener. At least, he was the one who gave me permission to hunt back here when I was a kid. I can call my dad for his number, see about getting a key. He lives about fifteen minutes away.”
“We don’t have time for that,” I said. “Call and ask him for consent to cut the lock and search his property and the cabin. Tell him the sheriff will pay for the damage.”
Rex stepped away and got on the phone with his dad. While he did that, Larry retrieved a large set of bolt cutters and examined the lock and chain. The rest of us peered around, watching for any sign of Tom. When Rex finally returned, he gave a nod. “The old man said he only had one lock on the gate, but he hasn’t been back here in a couple of years and no one has been using the property. He said we can rip that new lock off and search whatever we need to search. He also asked that we charge Tom with trespassing if we find him on the property.”
Once the chain was cut, Rex continued leading the way. The surface of the road was made of loose shells and it was bumpy. It was lined on either side by trees and thick underbrush. There were no shoulders on the road and two large ditches—half filled with water from the earlier rain—were the only barriers separating the road from the forest. The entire area was cloaked in shadows and it gave the appearance of being later in the day than it actually was.
About a mile down the road, Rex pulled his cruiser as far off the road as he could without going in the ditch and we all followed suit, stepped quietly out of our cars. They eased their doors closed and gathered in front of Rex’s cruiser. I lingered by my door, unsnapped the buttons around my wrists and rolled up my sleeves, grateful for the trees above and the shade. Dawn walked around and looked up at me. “You ready?”
I shoved a pair of handcuffs in my back pocket, checked my pistol to make sure it was secure in the holster, and gently closed my own door. Taking a deep breath, I nodded at Dawn and led the way to the arrest team. “Let’s do this.”
In a hoarse whisper, Rex explained where the cabin was located and how it was situated in the clearing. “There’s a bunkhouse to the right, nearly as big as the cabin, and a shed to the left. There used to be an old tractor and a boat in the shed, but I don’t know if they’re still there.”
I rubbed my stubble for a second then pointed to Rex and Larry. “Y’all come with me and Dawn. We’ll take the cabin.” I turned to the other SWAT guys and instructed them to go with Karla to the bunkhouse, while the other deputy would check the shed with Dudley. “Put your earpieces in and wait for my signal. Once we’re in position, we all go on one.”
They nodded their agreement and we made our way stealthily down the road, stepping softly so our boots wouldn’t scrunch too loudly on the shells and give away our approach.
Sweat dripped from my forehead, and down my neck. I could feel the cool wetness on my back and knew that my entire shirt was saturated. The tops of my black boots were gray from the dust. My pants felt sticky. I shook my head. “When I retire,” I said under my breath, “I’m moving deep in the Smoky Mountains, where it’s cool all summer long.”
We trudged on, putting one foot in front of the other, until we finally caught sight of something in the distance that could easily be mistaken for a cabin. Using hand signals, we jumped the ditch to our right and began making our way through the woods, fanning out like a hit squad. The going was painstakingly slow, as we dodged a branch here and a dry leaf there, trying not to make a sound. Every now and then one of us would misstep and a branch would snap underfoot, sounding like a gunshot against the stillness of the surrounding wilderness. We’d halt in place, reach for our weapons and stare wildly about, searching for any sign that we’d been detected. Once we were certain no one had heard us, we’d press on, moving ever closer to where the cabin was hidden in the trees.
It was thirty minutes of pushing through blackberry bushes and ducking low-hanging tree branches before we got close enough to see the structures clearly. We moved even closer and came to the edge of the trees where a log cabin was situated at the center of a large clearing. It was a moderately sized cabin with a large porch extending the entire width of the dwelling. The front door was made of solid wood and there was a window on each side of it. The bunkhouse and shed were positioned how Rex described. The only thing Rex hadn’t described was the red Ford Excursion with no license plate that was parked near the edge of the porch. It was new and seemed out of place against the quaint backdrop.
Giving my group a sign to wait, and moving in slow and deliberate motion, I crawled to the truck, retrieved the vehicle identification number, and backed away. I reached around to my belt and smashed the button on my radio to call headquarters. A dispatcher whose voice I didn’t recognize answered loudly in my ear. I winced, lowered the volume and, in hushed whisper
s, requested she run an inquiry on the VIN.
I had to recite the number twice for her, as I crouched with the arrest team in a clump of bushes, and we waited, our eyes glued to the cabin and surrounding area. After what seemed like forever, the dispatcher came back on the line. “Is it a red Ford Excursion?” she asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Okay,” she said triumphantly, as though she’d just completed that task successfully for the first time. “It comes back registered to Peter Wainwright.”
I pulled my Beretta from its holster, gripped it with both hands, nodded to the others to do the same. After taking a deep breath, I slowly eased out from behind the tree and waited, listening. Nothing. All was tensely quiet. The rest of the arrest team stepped out from their positions of cover and fanned out across the property. Dropping into a crouched position, I slowly moved forward, one step at a time, pausing between each step to listen. Other than an occasional crunch from one of our boots rubbing the ground, there were no sounds, not even that of the natural wildlife. It was quiet...too quiet. My eyes swiveled back and forth, my pistol moving in unison with my gaze. I took slow, shallow breaths. Inch by inch I moved, the cabin drawing increasingly closer. As I made my final approach, my eyes were focused on the front sight of my pistol, which was trained on the front door, and I could see the rest of the team through my peripheral vision taking up positions near the entry points to the shed and bunkhouse.
Sweat gushed from my pores. I finally reached the steps to the porch, dropped beside it and placed my back against the railing. Dawn crouched next to me and Larry set up on the opposite side of the steps. Rex whispered his intentions and moved quietly to secure the back of the cabin.
When I was certain Rex was in position, I let go of the pistol with one hand, wiped my palm on my pants, and did the same with the other. After I had re-gripped my handgun, I nodded to Dawn and Larry and rose to a crouched position again and placed one foot on the bottom step. I transferred my weight to that foot and eased my other foot to the next step. I did the same for the third step. I paused and listened intently, trying to penetrate the thick outer log walls with my ears. All was ghostly quiet.
Had Tom been alerted somehow and already made his getaway? Did he suspect that his tattoo gave him away? Were we too late?
I lifted my right foot and gently placed it onto the rough wooden porch, transferred my weight to my right leg and lifted my left leg from the last step. Just as I’d started to set my left leg down, a sharp crack sounded under me. I froze. Someone behind me sucked in their breath. My heart pounded in my ears, making it difficult to listen for faint noises. When the crack drew no response from inside, I relaxed and eased closer to the door.
I waited there while Larry and Dawn climbed the steps and made their way across the porch. They didn’t make a sound.
Holding my breath, I reached for the door knob with my left hand. My right hand held the Beretta, aiming it at the doorway. Dawn was crouched beside me, aiming her pistol at the doorway, while Larry stood ready to enter, his submachine gun poised for action. With fingertips that trembled, I touched the knob gingerly and tested it. It moved easily. I glanced at Dawn, nodded.
Cupping her non-gun-hand over her mouth to muffle it, she spoke into her mouthpiece. “Arrest team, stand-by—we go on one. Ready...ready...three...two...one!”
I shoved the door open and the hinges screamed loudly in protest. I darted through the opening, followed the wall to the right. I realized immediately I was in a living room that opened into the kitchen. Larry entered next and peeled off to the left, disappeared down a long hallway. Dawn entered after Larry and, after taking in the obviously empty living room and kitchen, followed him into the unknown.
Moving rapidly, but as quietly as I could, I cleared the living room and slipped through the opening that led to the large kitchen. Behind me, on the other side of the cabin, I heard Dawn and Larry stomping around and kicking doors open as they cleared the rest of the building.
Other than our movements, everything inside the cabin was graveyard quiet. An uneasy feeling began to fall over me. I scanned the kitchen with my Beretta. Breathing steadily, I stepped deeper into the kitchen and made my way around a deep freezer. There was a large pantry along the far wall and I made my way toward it, my right hand gripping my pistol with a purpose. As I neared the pantry, I reached for the knob with my left hand when a flickering motion on the far wall caught my eye.
I spun and jerked my pistol in that direction, sighed when I saw a small television mounted to the wall, suspended six feet above the floor. My brows puckered as I studied the image on the screen. It looked eerily familiar. Suddenly, fear’s icy fingernails stabbed through my chest and squeezed my heart to an abrupt halt as I realized what I was seeing—surveillance footage of the gate we’d entered minutes earlier.
My mouth turned dry as my gaze dropped from the television monitor to the table. A half eaten sandwich sat on a paper plate. Beside it was a glass of water with dribbles of condensation on the outside. “Son of a—”
CHAPTER 43
The pantry door burst open and smashed violently into my left shoulder, sending me stumbling across the kitchen. Before I could right myself, a hard object crashed into the left side of my head, behind my ear. I collapsed to the ground, my Beretta falling from my grasp. Head swimming and eyes slightly crossed, I tried to quickly get my bearings. Boots echoed rapidly toward me and I dove blindly under the table, scrambling to the other side. I pushed through two chairs on my hands and knees. Clutching at the wall, I pulled myself to my feet.
I spun around just in time to see Tom grab the table and fling it to the side. I clenched my fists, lifted my hands. Tom seemed larger than he did when he’d work me on the mitts. He glared at me and began to slowly circle. I glanced around the room for my pistol as I tried to blink the cobwebs from my head. It was nowhere to be seen.
“What’s going on, Brandon?” came Dawn’s voice from the other side of the cabin. I could hear the pounding of her and Larry’s boots as they rushed toward my location.
Tom heard them, too. Before I could call out to Dawn, he immediately lunged toward me, loading up with an overhand right. I waited until the last second and dipped low. His fist crashed into the wall above me, and I quickly delivered two crashing hooks to his midsection. He didn’t seem fazed, as he grabbed the back of my head and brought my face down to his ascending knee. Pain shot through my nose. I sank to my knees, blood falling from my face. Reaching out blindly, I grabbed hold of one of Tom’s legs and jerked it toward me. The move sent him crashing to the floor and I stood wobbly to my feet.
Undaunted by the simple spill to the ground, he jumped to his feet and attacked with a flurry of punches. I noticed that when he threw his punches, he would draw his arm back, telegraphing them. I managed to slip and block most of them and responded with a combination of my own, forcing him back to the middle of the kitchen as my knuckles made abrupt contact with his face.
Blood spilled from Tom’s nose. My head throbbed. I shook it to clear it, but a searing pain shot down my neck.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dawn appear in the opening to the kitchen, Larry on her heels. Tom faked an overhand right punch toward me and then turned and crashed through an exterior glass door. Tom scrambled to his feet and I heard Rex yell at him to stop. Tom started running toward the woods and a gunshot rang out. He crashed through the bushes and the forest swallowed him up. Rex fired two more shots in rapid succession.
“Don’t shoot him!” I hollered, dropping to my knees and frantically searching the floor for my pistol, spitting blood from my mouth as I did. “Go catch him!”
Dawn and Larry jumped through the doorway and I lost sight of them. I finally located my pistol under the capsized table. Shoving it into its holster, I dipped through the broken glass and dashed across the small clearing. I pushed through the underbrush, raced in the direction I’d last seen Dawn, Larry and Tom. Rex had run off to the right as though he’
d seen something.
Tree branches clutched violently at me as I ran and twigs snapped loudly underfoot, so I couldn’t hear movement from anyone else. I glanced around as I ran, but there was no sign of Dawn, Larry or Tom. When I’d gone thirty or so yards, I began to worry that Tom had double-backed on me. I stopped, panting, and looked around. I took two deep, cleansing breaths to slow my heart rate, called out for Dawn and Larry. Branches suddenly snapped in the trees to my right and I spun around. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Tom through the thick trees.
“I’ve got him!” I yelled, sprinting toward Tom, my legs pumping like pistons. I pressed the button on my radio and called for backup, not sure if my transmission was even getting out.
I rapidly closed the gap between us and when I was within a few feet of him, I lunged forward and tackled him into a briar patch. We both scrambled to our feet and he took a wild swing at my face. I took it on the chin and a shock blasted down my neck. My left arm went numb and I immediately recognized the danger I was in from the old bullet wound.
He threw another punch and I slipped it. Propelled by anger and the will to win—to survive—I punched him as hard as I could with a right cross, pushing off with the ball of my right foot, and rotating my hips and shoulders into the punch. My fist crashed into his chin and I saw his knees buckle slightly. I followed up with a left hook and a right uppercut to his face and he staggered backward. Taking a hopping start, I whipped a wicked right elbow strike to his temple. Tom Kosinski crumbled to the ground and lay still.
Standing over him, I pushed the pool of sweat from my face and rubbed the back of my neck, thankful I’d fought an aging Tom “The Bomb” Kosinski and not a killer in his prime. The feeling began to slowly return to my arm and I breathed a sigh of relief. Blood pooled in my mouth and I spat it out. My head still ached, but I didn’t notice as much...the man with all the answers lay at my feet, alive and well enough to talk.
