Breaking Cover

by J. D. Rhoades

  BUCKTHORN saw the truck ahead of him slow and pull over onto the shoulder. He picked up the microphone and activated the loudspeaker. “Out of the car,” his voice boomed out in the stillness of the country road. “Hands in the air.” There was a brief pause, and the driver’s side door opened. Tony Wolf got out, slowly, hands held above his head. “On the ground,” Buckthorn ordered. “Don’t move.” Wolf complied. Buckthorn had radioed for backup, but that was at least ten minutes away. He got out of the car and drew his weapon. He approached slowly, the barrel of the pistol never wavering from Wolf ’s prone form. “Hands behind your back,” he said.

  Wolf didn’t move. “Hands behind your back!” Buckthorn screamed. Reluctantly, Wolf crossed his wrists behind his back. Buckthorn holstered his pistol and took a pair of plastic zip cuffs out of the pouch on his belt. He looped them quickly around Wolf ’s wrists and pulled them tight. There was no key; the only way to get them off now was to cut them off. He stepped back. “Your wife said we could expect you back here,” he said.

  “They’re going to kill her,” Wolf said.

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  “We’ll talk about that in a minute. Right now, I need to know if you have any weapons in the vehicle.”

  Wolf hesitated. “Yeah,” he said. “AA-12 automatic shotgun on the floorboard, 9 mm Beretta in the glove box.”

  Buckthorn glanced over at the truck. He could see the silhouette of the shotgun. He stepped around the vehicle to the passenger side and pulled the door open. Something that had been wedged between the seat and the door dropped to the ground between him and the truck. He looked down. There was a cylindrical object lying between his feet. A metal lever lay next to it. Grenade, Buckthorn barely had time to think before it went off.

  EVENTUALLY, EXHAUSTION overcame fear, and Kendra dozed, still upright in the chair. She was awakened when Clay came back in. He had a submachine gun slung over one shoulder. He held another in his right hand. He was carrying a toolbox in his left. Bob stood up as Clay tossed the gun to him. “Go downstairs,” Clay ordered. “Into the basement. There’s some kind of tunnel or some such shit down there. He may try to get in that way. You and Pete watch for him. Fred-dog and Tiny are upstairs watching the outside.” Bob glanced at Kendra, and Clay grinned nastily. “Don’t worry, we’ll save you some. The fun doesn’t begin till he gets here. Just remember. Take him alive. You kill him before we get a chance to take his legs, and Johnny says you get the ax in his place.”

  “Clay,” Bob said, “this shit is fucked up, man.” Clay said nothing, just stared at Bob with narrowed eyes. “Come on, brother,” Bob said, his voice a little desperate. “I know Johnny wants payback. I’m down with that. All the fucking way to the end. But you get down to threatening brothers, people you’ve ridden with for years . . . man, what the fuck? I mean, really . . . what the fuck?”

  “Just get down there,” Clay snapped. Bob shook his head but walked out the swinging door. Clay took the seat he had just vacated, setting the toolbox down beside him. He kept his eyes on Kendra without speaking. Something in those eyes caused her to shrivel inside. She knew what was going on behind them. Images of her in agony, images of torture and rape and pain. He was planning how best to make her suffer, running through fantasies in his head, refining them. She didn’t want to think about what was in that toolbox. When she tried to speak, her voice sounded rusty, as if it had been unused for a long time.

  “Blauner,” she said.

  The name seemed to jar him out of his dark reverie. “What?”

  “Your guy on the inside. It’s Blauner, right? He was there when I interviewed the reporter. She told me about the tunnel. I had written it up, but I hadn’t sent the report in yet. So if you know about the tunnel, you probably know about it from Blauner.”

  “Nice work, Agent Wolf,” Blauner said as he came into the room. He was pushing Johnny Trent ahead of him in his wheelchair. Johnny held a stubby cut-down shotgun across his lap. “I can see why you’ve gone as far as you have,” Blauner said.

  “You son of a bitch,” Kendra spat at him.

  Blauner just smiled as he parked Johnny next to Clay. He sat down. “Sorry it had to end this way,” he said. He shrugged. “I don’t suppose it would make any difference if I told you this wasn’t what I’d planned. I guess it’s always that way when you make a deal with the devil.” He looked at Johnny. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Johnny said. He turned to Kendra. “Aren’t you even curious as to why?”

  “Not really.”

  “Bullshit,” Johnny said without heat. “Of course you’re curious. That’s why you’re a cop. You can’t help but stick your nose in other people’s business.” He turned and looked at Blauner. “See, Agent Blauner here’s a longtime customer of ours. He has a taste for some of the more, ah, extreme product we put out.” Blauner looked away.

  “We like to keep up with our customers,” Johnny went on. “Check the mailing lists and whatnot. Keep abreast of our customers’ other interests so as to serve their needs better. When we found out that one of the people who particularly enjoyed videos of little girls sucking dick was an FBI agent . . . well, my uncle Nathan is too good a businessman to waste an opportunity like that.”

  Blauner reddened. “That was supposed to have been between—” “Uncle Nathan finally told me everything,” Johnny interrupted. “I can see why he’d want to keep a card like you up his sleeve and well hidden. But once a card is played, there’s no use in secrets anymore.” He turned back to Kendra. “Of course, that was just the hook,” he said. “Once Agent Blauner here saw there was more money to be made working with us than he could make in twenty years at a government salary . . . plus, maybe be in on the production of some of the movies he likes so much—”

  “Just give me my money,” Blauner said, “and let me get out of here.”

  “Yeah, well, about that,” Johnny said. Another pair of men came in and took up positions on either side of Blauner’s chair. “Uncle Nathan and I had a talk about that final payment. I suggested that since you’re a card that’s been played, it doesn’t make any sense to throw any more money your way.”

  Blauner tried to stand up. The two bikers on either side of him grabbed his elbows and yanked him to his feet. Johnny leaned forward, his eyes bright and feverish. “You ever read about the Vikings?” he asked.

  “Wh-what?”

  “They had a special punishment for traitors,” Johnny said. Clay stood up. He had taken a mallet and a chisel out of his toolbox. He had that grin on his face again. “They called the punishment the Blood Eagle.” Johnny nodded to the two men holding Blauner. “Use the dining room table,” he said. “It’s sturdier. Better built. We’ll do Wolf there, too.” The men dragged Blauner out of the room. He was struggling frantically.

  Johnny turned to Kendra. “I’ve got to tell you,” he said, “I really like some of the furniture they’ve got in this place. They just don’t make stuff like that anymore. Built to last.”

  From the next room, the screaming began.

  THE FIRST sense buckthorn recovered was smell. The acrid scent of burnt fabric filled his head. Then he felt the pain in his lower legs. Holy shit, I’m on fire, he thought. The fear shocked him back to full consciousness.

  He was sitting in the front seat of Wolf ’s truck. They were moving. The sun had gone down, and Wolf had the headlights on. Buckthorn’s hands were fastened in front of him with a pair of silver handcuffs. They were the old-style police cuffs, not the plastic kind, so they weren’t Buckthorn’s. At least the bastard didn’t lock me up with my own cuffs, Buckthorn thought. The thought gave him only the slightest comfort. He looked over at Wolf ’s wrists. He’d cut his own cuffs off in a hurry, and it must have been clumsy work. He’d wrapped his wrists with torn bits of fabric that were spotted with blood.

  “Sorry about your pants,” Wolf said from the driver’s seat. “The flashbang set them on fire. I had to put them out. They’re
pretty well fucked, I’m thinking. And you’ve got some burns on your legs, but they’re not serious. Still, you’ll want to have those looked at.”

  “A flashbang,” Buckthorn repeated stupidly.

  “Yeah. Stun grenade. Sets off a hell of a noise—”

  “I know what a goddamn flashbang is!” Buckthorn snapped. “I also know you’re not supposed to use them at that close a range.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t have much time. I had to improvise.” “Kidnapping and assaulting a law enforcement officer is a felony, Wolf. A serious one.”

  “No shit, Sheriff,” Wolf said. “I’m really not thinking that far ahead right now, but I don’t expect I’ll need to.”

  A memory came back. “You said they were going to kill her. You mean the Trents?”

  “Yeah. And their little army. They’re dug in up at my old house.”

  “You ever consider that maybe you should let the real police handle that?”

  “Like you handled me?” Wolf paused. “Okay, that wasn’t fair. I saw your guys work. You’ve got some moves. Pretty impressive for a bunch of country boys.”

  “I hope you don’t expect me to thank you.”

  That got a reluctant chuckle. “No, I guess not. But let me ask you something. If I hadn’t stunned you and cut these cuffs off, what would you be doing right now about this little situation?”

  “I’d call in the Rapid Response Team. Get a tac plan in place. Get out there and—”

  “And my wife would die. Guaranteed. See, Sheriff, here’s the thing you don’t get. All your doctrine and tactics assume that the subject in the house doesn’t want to die.”

  “And Johnny Trent doesn’t care, is that what you’re saying?”

  “You’re not listening to me!” Wolf pounded the steering wheel in frustration. “He does care if he lives or dies. But dying’s what he cares about doing.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He told me himself. He told me he wished I’d killed him. Right now, the only thing he wants more than his own death is to see me suffer. He wants to do it directly. But if he can do it by killing my wife, or making her suffer in my place, he’ll do it. He already cut off one of her fingers.”

  “What!?”

  “Or more likely he had Clay do it.”

  Buckthorn was silent for a moment. “So what are you going to do?”

  “First, find someplace safe to stash you, where you won’t be able to do some by-the-book cop thing that’s going to get my wife killed. Then I’m going to give myself up to them.”

  “They’ll just kill you.”

  “Probably. But they’ll want to play with me a while first.”

  “You stopped to think that maybe they won’t let her go? That they’ll hurt her and you?”

  “Oh, yeah. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. But I have a couple more surprises.” He looked over at Buckthorn. “Tell me, how long have they been in the house?”

  “Couple of days. No more.”

  Wolf nodded. “Good. After I got out, what’d you do with the place? You process it as a crime scene?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “You see anything unusual about the walls?”

  “The walls?”

  “Yeah. The interior walls. Notice anything about the plastering?”

  Buckthorn scowled. “No. Nothing. Why?”

  “Good.” Wolf drove on for a little while in silence. Then he pulled the truck onto a dirt path off the main road. It bumped and jolted over the ruts. Finally, they came to a stop.

  “The house is over that way, through the woods,” Wolf said. He got out. He pulled the shotgun and knapsack from behind the driver’s seat. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the handcuff key. He stepped out and tossed it underhand, into the darkness down the road where they’d just come. He leaned back into the cab. “It’ll take you a while to find that,” he said, “and a while longer to get to a radio. By then, everything will be resolved. One way or another. Nice knowing you, Sheriff.” He started to leave, then stuck his head back in. “Oh, by the way,” he said, “if you’re tempted, there’s not really a pistol in the glove box. It’s another flashbang with the arming lever wedged down.” He grinned. “I couldn’t be sure you’d open the passenger side door. Good luck finding the key, Sheriff. But not too good.” Then he was gone into the darkness.

  THIS IS fucked up,” Florida Bob said.

  “I know, man,” Pete the Perv said glumly. They sat in the gloom of the basement, submachine guns across their laps. They’d found an old pair of rickety wooden chairs that creaked and threatened to collapse into splinters at every moment. A battery-powered lantern hung by a hook from the low ceiling. “Sittin’ down here in the fuckin’ basement,” Pete went on, “guardin’ a fuckin’ hole in the wall, while Clay and Johnny party with that fine-lookin’ blonde . . .”

  “Not that, man,” Bob said. “It’s Johnny. I think he’s gone bugfuck.” Pete snorted. “Johnny’s always been nuts, bro. You just don’t notice it as much when Clay’s around.”

  Bob was getting exasperated. “That’s not what I mean, either. Did you hear him up there? If we don’t bring McCabe or Wolf or whatever the fuck his name is in alive, he’s gonna have Clay cut our legs off instead.” He shook his head. “We’re brothers, man. Full members. That’s not right.”

  “Aw, man,” Pete said. “He’s just sayin’ that. He ain’t really gonna do it. He’s just, you know, bein’ motivational and shit.”

  “No, I thought that, too. At first. But you weren’t looking at his eyes when he said it. I was. He ain’t just woofin’, man. He doesn’t care about the Brotherhood anymore. All he cares about is gettin’ even.”

  “Hey, ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

  “It ain’t right,” Bob repeated. Pete didn’t answer. The only sound was the chairs creaking under them when they moved. Then they heard the screaming begin from upstairs.

  “Huh,” Pete said disgustedly. “Looks like they started without us.”

  “Naw,” Bob said. He cocked his head, listening. “That’s not the bitch.” The voice was pleading now. They couldn’t make out the words, just the desperation. Then the words were cut off and the screaming began again, louder.

  “Who the fuck is that?” Pete said.

  “I don’t know,” Pete said, “but sounds like Johnny and Clay aren’t too happy with him.”

  They were both looking up, fascinated and terrified at the howls and sobs of agony from above. Then they saw the dark stain seeping through the old wooden floorboards. As they watched in shock, the stain spread and deepened in color.

  “Fuck,” Pete whispered.

  WOLF crept to the door of the barn. He stopped, pressed against the rough wood wall, and listened. He thought he could hear shouting—no, screaming—from the house. He felt himself dying inside. But the screaming stopped for a moment, followed by a voice, pleading. It didn’t sound like a woman. Then the screaming started again. He clenched his fists. He couldn’t rush in, no matter how much he wanted to. He’d only succeed in getting both himself and Kendra killed. He couldn’t hear any movement from inside the barn, though.

  The sounds from inside the house stopped. He didn’t want to think about what that might mean. He pulled the barn door aside, wincing as it groaned along its track. He gave himself just enough room to slip through.

  Inside, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the deeper gloom. When he could just barely make out the shapes of objects, he picked his way carefully to the workbench. He propped the shotgun against it before locating the drawer he needed by touch and easing it open. He felt around inside until his fingers closed around a familiar shape. He took it out of the drawer and stuck it in his back pocket. He picked up the shotgun and slung it on his back. Slipping back out as silently as he came in, Wolf made for the toolshed.

  When he had reached the bottom of the ladder and the entrance to the tunnel, he could see a dim glow at the end. Someone was waiting in the basem
ent. Wolf reached into his pocket and took out the object he’d taken from the barn. He fumbled in the darkness until his thumb found the switch he wanted and pressed down, then released it. There was a click and a low, almost indistinguishable whine. A red LED glowed in the darkness like a baleful eye. He found the second switch and pressed down with his thumb, this time holding the button down. The red light went out and a second one came on, this one green. He raised the device above his head like a torch and started off down the tunnel, toward the light.

  LISTEN,” FLORIDA Bob said.

  “I hear it,” Pete replied. They stood up, machine guns at the ready, pointed at the dark mouth of the tunnel, fingers tensed on their triggers. Pete’s shoulder jostled the light hanging from the ceiling, causing the shadows to jitter and waver drunkenly. They waited, listening to the sound of footsteps approaching.

  Before long, the man they had known as Axel McCabe appeared in the mouth of the tunnel. He held a small black plastic object in his right hand. A long gun was slung across his back. He didn’t seem surprised to see them.

  “Evening, Bob,” he said calmly. He nodded. “Pete.”

  “Drop it, McCabe!” Florida Bob snapped.

  “You don’t really want me to do that, Bob,” the man said. “And the name’s Wolf, by the way.”

  “I don’t give a fuck if it’s Princess motherfucking Diana,” Bob said. “Drop whatever that is you’re holding—”

  “If I do that, this place goes up like a Roman candle.” Wolf said. He held the object out. “Deadman switch, boys. Connected to a pound of C-4 in each of the downstairs walls. Shoot me and it all goes bang.”

  “Bullshit,” Pete said.

  Wolf looked at him calmly. “Try me.” He smiled tightly. “Besides,” he said, “I’m betting Johnny told you to bring me up alive. Right?” Pete and Bob looked at each other uncertainly. “So why don’t you take me on up there?” Wolf said. “Johnny and me, we got a lot to talk about.”