Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3)

by Jay J. Falconer

  “Probably. Did you notice how the first two shots were close together, then the third?”

  She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “When I was in the military, they taught us a technique called The Mozambique. It’s two to the chest and one to the head. The timing between those gunshots makes me think that’s what we just heard.”

  “Military?”

  “Or former military. Then again, could be some lowlife who happens to know what a triple tap is.”

  “Why would someone do that? Frank’s no threat to anyone, except himself.”

  “Probably robbing the place when we showed up.”

  Her eyes dropped their focus to the ground, then began to dart from left to right. She stopped and looked up, as though she’d just reached a conclusion. “Then this is all my fault for calling out like that,” she said, with her nose pinched and forehead wrinkled. “Damn it. I should’ve waited and checked everything out first.”

  “You couldn’t have known someone was in there with him.”

  “I should’ve followed procedure. He’s probably dead because of me.”

  “Look, we both thought he was out here all alone.”

  She shook her head, looking determined, eyes wide and face tense. “I gotta do something. I can’t let the shooter get away. I have to arrest him.”

  Daisy tried to stand up again but Bunker wouldn’t let her go, noticing she was breathing heavily, with her gun hand shaking. He figured she hadn’t been in many situations like this. Not out here in the sticks. Small towns like Clearwater didn’t exactly have a lot of shootouts, or murders.

  “Daisy, you need to slow down. Think it through,” he said, squeezing her arm gently to reinforce his words. “The last thing we need is to make the situation worse. It’s just you and me out here and there’s no backup. We need to take this step by step and work together.”

  She nodded, taking a few extra breaths.

  He leaned to the right and scanned the area around the house. The light inside was now off, leaving the home shrouded in darkness. He aimed the flashlight at the windows along the front, moving quickly from window to window. Each of the blinds was still closed, but the glass in the far window looked like it had been broken.

  Bunker turned the flashlight off and waited for his pupils to adjust. Once they did, he let his gaze run out of focus, switching to peripheral vision.

  He’d been taught in the service that peripheral vision works best in near-total darkness. Something about the rods around the retina being more light sensitive than the cones inside the center. He waited for movement, but didn’t see anything.

  He looked at Daisy. “Is there a back door to the place?”

  She pointed at the front of the trailer. “No, just that door in the middle.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I used to hang out here all the time with his daughter. It was back in high school, before Misty skipped town with a total jerk from overseas.”

  “What about windows across the back?”

  “Three, I think. But I’m not sure. It’s been a while.”

  He tied the horses to the gate, then checked Tuttle’s house again. Still no sign of anyone. “Looks like one of the windows at the far end is broken. You know what that means—”

  “—break-in.”

  “By an amateur.”

  She nodded. “A pro wouldn’t have done that. Too much noise. Probably a meth-head looking for a score. Something they can pawn for some easy cash. Wouldn’t be the first time around here. But these types of break-ins don’t usually happen while someone is home. And there’s normally not a shooting involved.”

  ‘Maybe not around here. But where I’m from, they do,” he muttered, looking down at Daisy’s right hand, staring at the Glock semi-auto. “You wouldn’t happen to have a backup I could borrow, would ya?”

  She reached down and pulled up her pants leg. “You mean something like this?”

  “What’s that? A .380?”

  She nodded and whispered, “Ruger. LCP. My belly gun.” She unwrapped the Velcro strap and pulled it from the ankle holster, then gave it to him.

  “Is it chambered?” he asked, ready to rack the slide and inject a round from the magazine.

  “Yeah, with Black Talon hollow points.”

  “That’ll work,” he said, wishing he had her Glock instead.

  The smaller caliber of the LCP meant he’d have to be dead-on accurate and at close range in order to take down the assailant. A .380 round didn’t pack a lot of punch, but the Black Talon hollow points would do some serious damage once they were inside the chest cavity and began to sprawl.

  That was assuming, of course, the target wasn’t wearing body armor. Otherwise, he’d have to go for a headshot. Just under the nose and above the lips was the most lethal shot, severing the spinal cord at the back of the neck in an instant.

  “Let’s move,” she said, moving forward in a crouched position. She climbed through the split-rail gate and scampered to the closest rock pile.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Bunker followed Daisy through the gate. She took a position behind a rock formation on the left. He chose one to the right, peering around the manmade mound while keeping his profile thin.

  He looked over at Daisy just as she brought her head around after taking a peek herself. She flashed a hand signal, telling him they were going to move ahead.

  Bunker waited until her feet moved, then slid out from behind the cover. He kept low as the two of them worked their way to the pair of rock heaps closest to the barn.

  All was quiet, but Bunker knew the gunman was still there, waiting for them with several rounds at the ready. If the perpetrator had military training, they might be advancing into a trap.

  He needed to dig deep and remember all the training he received at Camp Pendleton under the dutiful tutelage of the short in stature but lethal Sergeant Haskins.

  It was back during the part of his life when he thought he knew how the world worked. When it still had honor. Still had meaning. He was straight out of high school at the time, wide-eyed and ready to serve Mother Liberty.

  He still remembered how proud he felt when he signed up: his conviction was strong, feeding his desire to walk in the steps of all those brave souls who came before him. His life plan was simple back then—do his part for God and country. Then go to college on Uncle Sam’s dime.

  Bunker wasn’t sure why his mind was thinking about all of this right now, but it was and he couldn’t seem to shake it. Before his next breath, a wave of dizziness hit him, making his legs buckle. He landed on his knees and fell forward, ramming his forehead into the rocks stacked up before him.

  His breathing ran shallow and his eyes started to ache, forcing him to slam them shut. A series of images tore into his mind, all bloody. Even though they were only momentary glimpses, he knew what they represented—a sequence of events from long ago.

  His chest tightened, squeezing his heart just like it had during his final deployment. The crushing pain from years past was now raging in his chest with thunder.

  A dozen or so breaths later, the rapid-fire images began to slow before they came to a full stop—much like an old jukebox spinning through a flurry of titles until it found the one it wanted to play.

  He’d been through this process before and knew what was about to happen. It was time to relive one of the most painful moments of his life, a moment that changed who he was at the cellular level.

  As expected, the vision changed. He was now standing over the bodies of the fallen, the corpses in pieces and stacked up like sandbags in front of a mile-long poppy field, deep inside the Afghan desert. He remembered the scene like it was yesterday. It was the exact moment when he—

  “Bunker!” Daisy said in a sharp whisper. “You still with me?”

  Bunker snapped out of his flashback. His chest was still on fire and his breathing rapid. Pushing through it wasn’t easy, but he managed to regain control just
as the last haunting image vanished from memory.

  He swallowed hard, then opened his eyes. He looked at Daisy, feeling the drip of sweat on his cheeks. “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  “Good, ‘cause whatever that was—”

  “—I know. It hasn’t happened for a long time. Not sure why now, but it’s over.”

  “Thank God,” she answered, waiting a bit before speaking again. “I need to get in there and arrest the shooter, but I can’t do that if you’re somewhere else. You gotta keep it together.”

  She was right. He needed to shake the after-effects and focus on the task at hand. His legs still felt like rubber, but he was confident he could do what needed to be done. “I’m good. Trust me.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance, looking hesitant.

  “I’m good to go,” he said with more conviction.

  Her uneasiness seemed to fade. “I’m gonna move to the corner of the house first, then to the front door. I need you to cover me and follow me inside. We go on three. Ready?”

  He shook his head in disagreement, still feeling a light dizziness swirling inside. “With all due respect, Daisy, going in hot is a mistake. A fatal one at that. It’s just the two of us, with only pistols. We don’t know where the shooter is and it’s pitch black in there. Plus, we don’t know the layout.”

  “Well, first of all, I do know the layout. Inside the door is his living room, which connects to the kitchen and bedrooms. It’s probably covered in stacks of old newspapers and ashtrays filled with cigar butts. Second, it may be dark but we do have a flashlight. Third, I can’t let this man get away. It’s my duty to take him into custody.”

  “I get all that, but entering a door at night with a flashlight will get us killed. My fire team leader drilled it into us during our tactical training sessions: doorways are the Fatal Funnel—the most dangerous position during an assault. And the flashlight is the last thing we want to use. The shooter will aim for it first. Plus, we don’t have any body armor or sufficient manpower to make an effective breach. Now, if we had a complete assault team with night vision goggles, flashbangs, and ARs, we might have a chance. But right now, we’re at a complete disadvantage. It would be a suicide mission.”

  “Okay then, Mr. Military, what do you suggest?”

  Bunker took a few seconds to consider the options. They needed to draw the shooter out and control the risk, but the tools and resources at his disposal were limited. Improvisation was needed.

  His mind turned to something Daisy had just said about cigar butts and ashtrays. When he looked at all the junk in Tuttle’s yard, it gave him an idea. It was a long shot, but worth a try. “I’ve got an idea. You stay here and cover me.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “I don’t have time to explain, so just listen.” Bunker pointed at the closest window of Tuttle’s trailer. “When you see the shooter peek through those blinds, empty the magazine at him. Start high and work your way low. We’ll only get one chance at this, so don’t miss.”

  She looked a little confused, but nodded anyway. “I won’t. Was second in my class.”

  He was pleased to hear she was near the top of her class in marksmanship, given he was about to put his ass on the line. Yet he couldn’t help driving home one more point to the country cop. “Whatever you do, don’t turn that flashlight on. It’ll give away your position.”

  Her eyes were in agreement as she put a soft hand on his shoulder. “Be careful out there.”

  “I plan to,” Bunker said, checking the front of the house again. It looked clear. He took off for the closest Ford truck, angling his path to take him to the driver’s door. He opened it and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  A quick check of the interior didn’t turn up much except empty beer cans, a sweat-stained bandana, chewed toothpicks, and some wadded-up aluminum foil lying on the floorboard in front of the passenger seat. There was also a Colorado Rockies baseball cap with a salt lick growing around the brim and pair of work gloves with gaping holes in the palms.

  He pulled the ashtray out and found a supply of ashes and two cigar butts sitting in its reservoir. The clues were obvious: Tuttle spent time in this truck, enjoying beer and smoking. Probably after working in the yard, which would explain the gloves, cap, and stained bandana.

  Bunker imagined the old man sitting where he was now, laughing at his nosy neighbor across the street, all the while chugging down a few cold ones and belching between smoke rings as he puffed on a cigar. He wasn’t sure what the foil wrappers were from—Ding Dongs, maybe?

  Bunker leaned over and opened the glove box. Inside he found an old pipe, a zippered pouch of dry tobacco, and a book of matches that said Billy’s Pump and Munch on the cover. He opened the matches and found four virgin sticks inside. Bingo. Just what he hoped he’d find.

  He slid the matchbook into the front pocket of his jeans, then grabbed the bandana and one of the beer cans before slinking his way out of the truck. He’d planned to cut away sections of the seat covering to use as a flammable material, but scoring the old bandana saved him a step.

  Once on the ground, he stuffed the do-rag into his back pocket, then took out his knife and used the tip to enlarge the opening on top of the beer can.

  So far, so good, he thought. Now he just needed gasoline.

  He crawled under the pickup and went in search of the fuel line, starting at the rear of the vehicle. He felt around the tank until his fingers came upon a hose. Bunker followed it down and around to a clamp. A few inches later, he landed on a grommet and clip holding the rubber tube to the frame.

  Now that he’d found the low point, he needed to sever the supply. However, his body was directly under the gas line, so he repositioned himself for better access. With the beer can under the hose, he cut the tube in half with his knife, then waited. Nothing came out. Damn it. The tank must have been empty.

  He sighed, realizing his plan wasn’t going to work. Not without a supply of gas. Bunker thought about checking the other trucks for fuel, but they weren’t in the proper position for his targeted diversion to succeed. He’d have to transport the gas from one truck to the other, and that was going to take too much time. Plus, he didn’t have a hauling container.

  Before he could decide what to do, a new thought arrived.

  Maybe the tank in the first truck wasn’t empty.

  Since the vehicle was old and stationary, the gas might’ve broken down and gummed up the fuel line. He tapped the butt end of his knife on the underside of the tank. The sound was deep and solid, not a hollow ping like he expected. There was fuel. He tapped farther up the side. Same sound. Plenty of gas.

  Bunker cut away another section of the fuel line. But again, no fuel ran out. He tried slicing a third section, this time as close to the tank as he could reach, but still nothing. The facts led him to only one conclusion: the blockage was inside the tank.

  He opened the pickup’s gas cap and leaned in to take a whiff. The odor wasn’t what he expected. It smelled sour, like varnish. He was right. The gas had gummed up.

  That meant a Molotov cocktail might not work since the fumes inside the tank wouldn’t be potent. He figured the gas would still burn, but not without a high-octane ignition source to jump-start the chain reaction needed to cause an explosion.

  Just when he thought his diversion plan was doomed, he remembered something from earlier: the red lawnmower. It looked to be a lot newer than the rest of the clutter in the yard. It might have gas in it—fresh gas—a more combustible ignition source.

  Unfortunately, the mower was sitting in front of the vehicles and he’d have to expose himself to the shooter at close range. He needed better cover. Or a shield of some kind.

  Then it hit him—Tuttle’s old signs: they were made of metal.

  Bunker put the beer can on the ground and crawled past the second truck. He continued to the back of the third truck, stopping to survey the sign graveyard.

  Most of them were too big to carry or were th
e wrong shape to help him. But there was one he thought he could use—a faded red stop sign, about three feet tall and just as wide. It had two dark spots along the upper left edge. Dirt or rust? He couldn’t be sure, not without better light.

  Regardless, the idea had potential. Antique roadway signs were made of steel and thicker than the more modern composite aluminum. Better protection. Plus, the stop sign was small enough to maneuver around by hand. He’d have to stay low and keep the shield at a deflecting angle. Of course, if the shooter had armor piercing rounds, the steel wasn’t going to provide much protection, even at an angle.

  He thought about it for a few seconds. If Daisy was correct and the shooter was a meth-head amateur, then the criminal was probably armed with a 9mm handgun or something similar in caliber.

  In that case, the thickness of the sign would protect him, but he’d have to work quickly to avoid successive shots in the same location. They’d cause an ever-deepening dent and eventually penetrate.

  Bunker weighed the odds and decided it was worth the gamble. He put his knife into its sheath, crawled over to the stop sign, and grabbed it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Bunker used the half-inch mounting holes in the center of the sign as a grab point. The tips of his index fingers just fit, allowing him keep the shield in position as he worked his way to the mower in a crouched position.

  His fingers were exposed to the shooter; however, he wasn’t too concerned. Not if he was facing an amateur like Daisy suspected. The man’s hands were probably shaking thanks to the rush of adrenaline pumping inside his arteries. He’d seen it many times before, even in the service. Unexpected duress turns ordinary shooters into cowering sprayers and prayers. Unless the man inside had a precision-guided firearm, like the Tracking Point M1400, accuracy would elude him.

  Regardless, Bunker couldn’t rely on his assumptions and let his guard down. Not with his life and Daisy’s on the line. The sign needed to stay in front of him and angled to help deflect any rounds launched his way.