Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  Routine!

  Don't try and get creative!

  Just go by routine, he thought. Secure this place and call for backup. Don't try and think. Just go by routine!

  First, secure this place!

  But I'm almost empty! I need a tactical reload!

  Radford's Smith and Wesson .45 wasn't compatible with the extra clips he had hidden in his boots. So Kertzman scanned the room, remembered his Colt .45 falling to the floor, someone kicking it across the room toward the ... kitchen.

  Kertzman saw it, there on the kitchen floor. Nodding, he grinned, feeling a familiar, suicidal abandon, content that he would at least kill one more of them before he was put down.

  He knew he should have felt fear but he didn't. Pain had burned all emotion, all thought, down to a single place: He didn't care anymore.

  He removed an extra clip from his boot and staggered across the room, past the silent Sandman and Malachi's unconscious body. As he moved, he tried to analyze what he could analyze of the past few moments. After the car drove up, Sandman had drawn his hideaway, firing, and then there was firing ... outside!

  Kertzman clenched his teeth, groaning in agony, recognizing, now, what the sounds outside the cabin were. He had vaguely registered them during the firefight, but his mind was already fully occupied. Now, though, he had a moment to think, and he knew: There was a shootout between Gage and the rest of them.

  Reaching the .45, Kertzman bent, groping numbly with a bloody hand. He ejected the half-spent clip as he straightened, slammed in a new one.

  Tactical reload.

  Now secure this place. Call for backup.

  He moved to the back door and killed the light switch, cursing himself for not doing it earlier. Then he stepped outside, scanning. White lights from the still-burning LTD cast the back of the cabin in shadow.

  Sweating, breath rasping, Kertzman eased weakly, faintly, along a logged wall toward the garage. He had only taken half a dozen steps when he stumbled over it.

  Dizzy and already off-balance, Kertzman fell heavily, pitching clumsily forward to crash in a heap. Landing noisily on his side, he shouted in pain, struggling desperately in a billowing internal fog not to accidentally discharge the Colt.

  Stunned, he lay in silence for a moment, breathing deeply, tired, so tired. Then curiosity and concern sparked him and he roused what remained of his strength, rolling, groping in the dark to find what he had fallen over.

  A coat ... a body.

  Kertzman peered through the dark at the face.

  A Mexican.

  Kertzman didn't know him. Then he heard a slight sound behind him and he rolled, the .45 leading.

  Prone on the ground, eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light, he gazed steadily about.

  A moan.

  Kertzman saw the shape in the darkness; another man lay on the ground. As he watched, the man moved slightly and rolled onto his side. Eyes wide, Kertzman searched the shadows for anyone else. Saw nothing. Sharp with the moment, he moved forward, easing into a perfectly smooth 20-year-old jungle crawl that he executed despite his fatigue, one arm sliding over the other.

  With the first touch of his right forearm on the grass, needled slivers of hot fire lanced the open wound. Kertzman grimaced, blinking sweat, stifling a moan. In moments he was over the second man. He peered at the form and rolled him onto his back.

  Milburn. Shot through the chest but still alive.

  Kertzman couldn't tell how long the ex-CIA man would last, but it looked bad. Slowly, Kertzman brought one foot underneath, staggering, and rose. He stood for a moment, still dizzy, feeling the blood on his arm. He shook his head, fatigued, feeling the madness, endless and out of control.

  Movement behind.

  Kertzman whirled, the .45 going out to eye-level and his finger tightening.

  But the man was too close and too experienced with soldiers caught up in the heat of combat for that. Kertzman never managed the shot as a strong hand closed on the Colt, twisting to instantly dislodge it from his weakened grip.

  Gage.

  Breathing heavily, sweat glistening on his face and neck, in a second he had dropped the hammer of the Colt and handed it back to Kertzman, who received it in a mechanical grip.

  "They're gone," Gage whispered hoarsely. "They took Sarah. And they're gone." He shook his head, focusing on the Mexican for a moment before speaking again.

  “I’ll kill them for this," he rasped hoarsely.

  Gage's right hand tightened into a bloodless fist, trembling. His head was bowed, his voice a hushed, choking oath. His eyes glinted, red. "As God as my witness," he whispered, "I'll kill every one of them for this."

  Kertzman pointed to Milburn. "He's still alive."

  Looking sharply, Gage instantly crouched over Milburn. After a moment he reached out to shake the CIA man. Milburn opened his eyes, focused with a supreme effort.

  Silence.

  Gage leaned down further, speaking loudly. "Who are they, Bob?"

  Milburn's gaze was unseeing, distant. His voice was less than a whisper, the eyes half-closed. Kertzman thought he caught a hint of emotion in Gage's face as he waited for a reply.

  "You can't ... beat 'em, Gage," Milburn whispered. "Nobody can beat 'em. They ain't real."

  Face impassive, Gage waited.

  "They're some kind … some kind 'a Supermen." He shook his head. "Supposed to be like gods or something. A Sixth Order ..." He coughed blood.

  Moments passed, and Gage waited, growing more still. Kertzman thought he perceived the slightest lessening of the former Delta commando's stance.

  Milburn stirred. "I'm sorry, buddy," he said finally, shifting. "I got lost in it ... I got lost."

  Gage tilted his head slightly, inhaled heavily, exhaled. After a short silence he spoke, so quietly Kertzman could barely hear the words. "Me too, Bob."

  Gage waited, his head still tilted, as if he were looking at Milburn in a strangely softer light. "Just rest, Bob," he said quietly. "Just rest."

  Pained, Milburn blinked, stirring suddenly, struggling to rise. Gage pushed down, gently but firmly, on the shoulder. "No, Bob," he said. "Just rest."

  Milburn coughed, leaving a bloody, blackened froth on his lips. He stared at Gage as if he were a supernatural being. "It was me," he said brokenly. "I sanctioned the old man."

  Gage nodded, "I know."

  Milburn seemed to cry, moaned. "Find D'Oncetta," he whispered, lifting his head. "Find the priest ... D'Oncetta ... and you'll find the woman. He's at the Hassler ... Rome." Convulsing, coughing again, Milburn rolled onto his side. And in a moment was utterly still.

  Gage continued to clutch Milburn's shoulder, unmoving. Then, finally, he stood.

  Kertzman moved to say something calming. But no order of thought would come to his mind, his logic shattered by pain and fear and the terror of combat. He shook his head, thinking only of ... madness. Just madness. No end to it.

  "C'mon, Kertzman," said Gage, stepping forward to grasp him lightly under his injured arm. "You're hurt. Malachi's hurt. You need to call this in. Make it official."

  *

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  "I've got less than twelve hours to get the book," said Gage. "They'll break the code by then or they'll give Sarah something to make her talk."

  Kertzman stared numbly. "You think she'll talk?"

  Gage nodded, a frown turning his face. "Yeah, she'll talk. She won't be able to help herself. She won't talk easy. But she'll have to talk, in the end. They'll wear her down."

  Kertzman turned his huge, squared head to stare at Malachi.

  The old man was lying, pale and unmoving, on the couch, still unconscious. Blood loss had drained him to a state of near lifeless-ness. But Kertzman thought that, with proper medical care, he might live.

  Gage had quickly respliced the phone lines where they were cut and called for two ambulances and sheriff's deputies. He told them that the injuries were caused by firearms. Nothing more.

  Meanwhile, Barto
had recovered, slowly and groggily. Gage had checked the big guy's eyes and head, saw that he was hit low on the left side of his neck, on the nerve cluster. It had caused instant and painless unconsciousness but had also left a mild concussion. For the moment Barto was resting, dazed, in a chair.

  Sandman was dead and Gage had solemnly covered him with an Army G.I. blanket.

  The dead Nigerian still lay in a pool of blood exactly where he had fallen.

  Kertzman and Gage ignored him.

  "What are you going to do when you get the book?" asked Kertzman tiredly, holding a hastily bandaged right forearm with his left hand.

  Gage sniffed, finished packing the duffle bag. "Exchange."

  "That's going to be rough."

  "I know."

  "You ain't got no backup, Gage."

  He nodded. "I know."

  "There's still three of them, plus Radford."

  Face an icy mask, Gage tightened the strap of the duffle. "I'll deal with it."

  Kertzman was expressionless. "You can trust me, you know. You should know that by now. I ain't one of them."

  Gage looked up. "Yeah, Kertzman, I trust you. You've proven what you are. But you can't go with me. We got dead guys here and there's gonna be questions out the wazoo. You're gonna have to handle it."

  Kertzman looked absently at the door, raised his eyebrows faintly. "How much longer before they get here?"

  "I don't know. It depends. Third shift is small. They might be on something else. Might take half an hour. Or they might not be doing anything at all, just waiting for a call. It might be soon. But they'll probably try and get some backup from the troopers before they come in. That'll add a few minutes."

  Kertzman nodded, face pale. He mumbled, as if an afterthought, "What happened outside?"

  Setting the duffle bag on the table, Gage removed the Hi-Power from his waist, ejecting the clip.

  "Sarah was in the car," he said. "We were in a standoff. Stern, the leader, took a shot at me as soon as that scene started in here. I fell back, trying to take out him and Sato."

  "The Japanese?" Kertzman growled, eyes vacuous and mouth slack with pain and exhaustion.

  Gage nodded.

  "Pay him back for me."

  "I will," Gage said, with a terse nod, and raised his head suddenly, listening. "They're coming."

  In the distance, Kertzman could hear the faintest sounds of sirens, a lot of them. They were far away but coming fast.

  "Anyway, I went to the ground," Gage continued. "I tried to take out Sato with the MP5. But Stern was firing down on me and I had to look at him to hit him with the Browning. It was pitch black out there. I missed, I think. And then Bob got hit. Somehow. I don't know who did it. It could have been anyone. But I think ..." He shook his head, trying to recall it all, "... I think that Bob turned and took a shot at Sato. I can't be sure." He paused, took a breath. "It was a wild scene. Just a point-blank shootout in the dark. I'd forgotten how hard it was. But Stern got away with Sato. They were in the car."

  "You didn't get the Japanese at all?" asked Kertzman, almost angry. "Didn't even wound him?"

  Sirens were closing fast.

  Gage grew tense. "No. I missed. But I won't miss next time. Chavez was hit right off. Sato killed him. He didn't stand a chance. Didn't have a weapon in his hand. Then, as Chavez and Bob went down, Sato was moving. I went around the building after him, but the car was already headed down the driveway. I couldn't take a shot into the vehicle."

  Kertzman nodded. "I know."

  "By that time the shooting had stopped inside. I knew it was over, whatever it was. So I came back to the house. I worked my way to the front door, couldn't see you. Then I came around to the back."

  Sirens seemed to be converging on the driveway entrance almost a mile away.

  The county deputies would come in with extreme caution, slow and tactical, not eager to walk into a firefight between drug runners or worse. The ambulances would only come in when the scene was secured by local police.

  For at least three minutes, officers would debate different approaches, deciding who was in charge and who would take the heat if things went bad.

  Kertzman gazed at Gage's bag. "How you gonna get out of here?"

  "South trail." Gage slammed a fresh clip into the Browning. "It leads to a shack down by the highway. I've got a Harley there. I'll be in Monticello in less than half an hour. Cargo transfer flight is on standby. Then I'll be airborne."

  Gage focused, suddenly concentrated. "You gonna be alright with this?" he asked. "It's coming down on your head."

  "Oh, yeah, I'll be alright," said Kertzman, eyes dead-tired and filled with pain. "I'm gonna drag the local FBI guys down here. This whole fiasco is going federal, secrets and all, and the locals will be glad to get shed of it. We're gonna fingerprint the dead Nigerian there 'cause I know he's somebody. Just like ol' dead Milburn out there is somebody." He shook his head angrily. "I'm used to this, by now. I've almost figured it out and now I'm gonna drag it into the daylight. I'll be in Washington in a couple of hours accusing Milburn and Radford of treason, a cover-up, murder, kidnapping, the whole shebang. And I'll be looking to place the blame on somebody higher. I haven't quite got proof, yet. But I've got a suspicion. There'll be a lot of scrambling. I'll drag the NSA into it, the CIA, the Justice Department, and maybe even the White House. There's gonna be jurisdictional fights and everybody's gonna be accusing everybody else of wrongdoing. And they'll probably point the finger at me, too, accusing me of who-knows-what. But I'll be in their face at the same time, accusing them of worse. It's gonna be hot." He paused, licked dry lips. "It don't matter none. It's time for somethin' to shake loose."

  Gage nodded.

  The distant sound of sirens had stopped.

  Gage walked to the front window, eased a curtain back to gaze out. He stared into the darkness for a minute. "They're coming up the driveway," he said. "Real slow. No code."

  "That's how it's done," Kertzman mumbled. He waited a moment, eyes bright and narrow with concentration. "I'd like to meet you in Rome before the showdown."

  Gage moved to the table, picked up the duffle bag. He stared back at Kertzman, and over the big man's shoulder he saw, through the open front door, at least three deputy cars and a New York State Trooper unit stop in the driveway, barely visible inside the light. Gage heard the doors shut, glimpsed uniforms moving around, approaching slowly. Shotguns and revolvers and automatics were displayed. Last in line, he saw the white and red outline of an ambulance. No code equipment on any vehicle that he could see.

  Pure tactical.

  He looked at Kertzman. "You ain't had enough, Kertzman?"

  "It ain't over," Kertzman said, the customary gruffness in his voice. "I ain't had enough. That's an American citizen, and a woman, that those pigs took. And I've seen a good and decent old man shot down in front of me. Not to mention your two friends." He paused, face tightening in hard lines. "It's been a while, since that. No, it ain't over. And I ain't had enough. Not yet."

  "What about your chain of command?"

  "The only thing they got to be afraid of is me."

  Kertzman's face grew more expressive, ultimately and fearlessly committed to the words. "Somebody's gonna pay for this. Somebody big."

  Gage felt as if he were floating in the moment. "You watch yourself, Kertzman. It's out of hand. Way out of hand." He hesitated. "It always was."

  Kertzman stood up, stepped forward.

  "You meet me in Italy, boy." He pointed a finger from a broad, scarred fist at Gage's chest. "You meet me in Italy and we'll finish this thing together."

  Debating, Gage paused.

  In the distance he saw men with shotguns flanking the sides of the cabin, angling around to the back to seal off the building. Standard procedure.

  "Alright," he replied. "Check into the Medici Hotel on the Via Vittorio, Rome. I'll meet you there at midnight on Friday. Two days from now. But be there." He leaned close, face only inches from Kertzman's. "
I won't wait for you, Kertzman. If you're not there by midnight on the day after tomorrow I'll move without you. So don't let them intimidate you with paperwork. Don't let them control the situation."

  Kertzman nodded. "You don't worry about me, kid. Just get the book for the exchange." He hesitated, eyes wide with a sudden thought. "Wait a second. We don't even know who these goons are. How are you gonna set up a meet?"

  Gage's eyes were gleaming, vengeful and narrowed as he turned away. Moving with deathly poise, he stepped into the darkness.

  "I'm going to visit a priest."

  *

  THIRTY-NINE

  Sarah kept her eyes closed, listening. She remembered waking and, as if in a fog, she remembered speaking but she couldn't recall what she had spoken of, or to whom.

  It seemed like a distant, surreal dream experience, a childhood nightmare that had left an imprinted moment of terror so real it was branded upon her conscious mind. She couldn't recall much of what had happened to her in recent days, but she felt the ghostly tendrils of a drifting fear, like tattered clouds clinging to the side of a cliff, and she recalled ... danger, yes, and men with guns ... killing ...

  Father!

  Sarah took in a pained, sharp breath, rolling her head to the side. She was lying on something soft. Carefully, finding a desperate but complete control, she opened her eyes.

  Veiled light.

  Shadows.

  Gray somber hues outside the curtained windows …

  Moving stiffly, Sarah raised herself to an elbow, gazed around.

  She was in a small bedroom, fully clothed, her right forearm lightly bandaged with a strip of white gauze. Instinctively she touched the taped adhesive, eyes narrow, remembering.

  The cabin, fighting, blood, terror ... Gage ... gunfire and Kertzman and her Father.

  She closed her eyes, bowing and shaking her head at the memory. Malachi had said that he was alright, but she knew he was badly injured, perhaps even dead by now.

  Emotional pain blended with physical fatigue to smother her mind in a gray-black wave of swelling exhaustion. So much had happened, and so fast.