Shallow Creek

by Alistair McIntyre

  One down, three to go.

  Brendan moved around to the side of the cabin and pushed Michelle along to the far corner, where they ducked below a window near the firewood shed. Michelle clutched at him frantically, but he urged her back so that he could inspect his wound. Grant’s lucky shot had clipped his shooting arm. No wonder he’d missed his brother’s face.

  Damn. This was not good.

  A click above his head grabbed his immediate attention. He quieted Michelle with a sharp glance and listened as the window overhead slid open. A shotgun barrel appeared through the space, followed promptly by the hands holding it. Brendan ignored the protests in his injured arm and jumped up, grabbed the man’s forearms, and yanked him clean through the window. The large man crumpled headfirst into the hard ground with only a grunt, dropping his shotgun in the process.

  Not waiting for any signs of a struggle, Brendan pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket and slammed it into the man’s neck. He wrestled the tool back and forth, using his other hand to muffle the man’s screams. Eventually the man stopped yelling, but he continued to paw at his ravaged throat, trying in vain to stem the pulsing streams of blood. Brendan released him and pocketed the weapon he’d procured from Kim’s mom’s truck. Behind him, Michelle’s face turned fifty shades of green at the sight of the butchered man. There would be time to apologize later, but right now Brendan didn’t want to advertise their position with a gunshot.

  He scooted to the back corner of the cabin and glanced around it. No one was coming from that side, but the woods were farther back than he’d wanted them to be. There was no way he was running across that open space when two more hostiles were around. They’d be easy targets to anyone with one eye and a rifle.

  As he turned to relay a new plan to Michelle, a gunshot resounded from the front of the house. Michelle screamed and hit the deck as Brendan aimed over her to unload three shots into Mohawk, who was crouched by the side of the front porch. The man cried out briefly before falling back clutching at his neck.

  “It’s clear,” he whispered to Michelle, who was still lying on the ground. “Come on, get back up against the wall.”

  He’d fired six shots already, but the pistol’s weight told him he had plenty of bullets left. Hit by a surge of paranoia, he clicked the magazine out and saw a lot of brass in the cutouts. More than enough to kill his asshole brother.

  He looked at Michelle again and called to her, but she only mumbled in response. He moved away from the wall and gently rolled her over. On the pretty white tank-top under her red blouse, a different shade of red bloomed. Brendan checked her back to see if the bullet had gone clean through. He peeled her shirt up off her wet back and saw the exit wound clear as day, and also saw the copious flow of blood emanating from the hole.

  At least the bastard hadn’t used a hollow-point round, otherwise she’d probably be dead already. Moving her wasn’t the ideal next step, but either was sitting in plain sight of anyone moving from the porch to the trucks. Brendan lifted Michelle as gently as he could and strode to the woodshed. He grunted with the pain in his arm, but she absolutely shrieked in agony, tensing up and trying to wriggle from his grasp. Most men carrying a hot chick in their arms were stepping across the threshold of a new house, probably hoping to get laid. As Brendan lowered Michelle to the ground, he just hoped she’d live to cross the threshold of any house again.

  He applied pressure to her stomach wound, ignoring her pained cries. Each second that slogged by ate away at him as he prayed none of her internal organs had ruptured. The blood looked clean enough, but he wasn’t a doctor.

  Someone raced across gravel from the front of the cabin. Brendan tried to look around the shed to see who, but his vantage point hadn’t been well thought through and sucked. When truck doors opened and closed, and then an engine fired up, Brendan let go of Michelle and jumped up to see his brother’s red truck take off.

  He’d already killed the three henchmen he knew of, and it was more than likely Grant in the pickup, so Brendan lifted Michelle again and ran for the house. She moaned with every jolt, but he had to get her medical attention ASAP.

  The door was already open when he stormed across the porch, but he stopped himself before blindly running in. After a quick peek inside to confirm no hostile threats lay in ambush, Brendan carried Michelle in and gently put her down on a couch under the big window facing the porch.

  A few quick shakes roused Agent Tyson from his unwanted nap. The agent immediately looked to Spee’s empty chair. “Where is she?” he mumbled, like his mouth was full of marbles.

  Brendan grabbed a knife off the mantelpiece above the fireplace and worked at Tyson’s bonds. “I think my brother took her.” He focused on slicing off the crude restraints. “I’ll go after her, but how many men does Grant have here?”

  Tyson rubbed his free wrists and stood, but wobbled sideways before Brendan could grab him. Brendan helped the man back to his feet and repeated his question.

  “Just the four,” Tyson said, gingerly touching his own face. “Three inside and one always outside on guard.”

  “They’re all dead then.” Brendan looked for anything to use as a tourniquet for his arm, which now throbbed like death itself.

  He found a shirt hanging on a chair, tore a strip out of it, and asked Tyson to bandage him up tightly. The agent complied absently, evoking a grimace from Brendan as the fabric bit into his arm. When Tyson finished, Brendan grabbed a cell phone off the floor and handed it to him.

  “Call this in. You’ve got to get help or Michelle’s going to bleed out.”

  Tyson nodded and went to the couch to examine her wounds. “This is bad,” was all he said.

  “No shit.” Brendan knelt next to Michelle. “I’ve got to go after them. Are your keys in your truck?”

  “Yes, but don’t go, Tenny,” she mumbled softly, sounding like a kid slipping off to sleep.

  “I have to.”

  With that, he nodded to Tyson, who was already tearing down a curtain from the window, probably to bundle Michelle’s torso. That done, Brendan ran out the door.

  Chapter 48

  Jumping into Michelle’s truck resurfaced the dark memory of his last turn at the wheel, with her sitting next to him, moments before she screamed at him and ran off to her house. Definitely not his best moment, but on the positive side, he’d wiped out his brother’s small army, some of whom he was sure had jumped him behind Trish’s when he’d gone out with Michelle. Revenge was sweet, but not if it cost Michelle her life.

  He grabbed at the ignition, but came up empty. The keys were gone. He shuffled around, looking under his butt to see if she’d left them on the seat. Nope. He checked the visor, but found nothing. Pulling up the oversized central console lid revealed Michelle’s secret hiding place for her keys. He slammed the key home and urged the truck to life. Immediately the seat powered forward, returning to Michelle’s preset, but Brendan fumbled with the controls to cancel the operation before his knees broke through the dashboard.

  Seconds later, Brendan rocketed down the dirt trail away from the cabin, wondering how the hell he’d catch up to his brother. Even at a slow pace, Grant would have a sizeable lead on him by now, but leaving earlier hadn’t really been an option. Michelle had needed some medical attention, but as Brendan roared around a gentle curve, he realized he probably screwed up on two counts.

  To save Spee, he should’ve left Michelle immediately and given chase. To save Michelle, he should’ve stayed with her and made sure the authorities got out there to help her. Hell, he could’ve thrown her in the truck and taken her closer to a hospital, instead of leaving her out in the boonies with a battered DEA agent. Brendan prayed that Tyson had some kind of medical training.

  His grip on the wheel tightened as he hit a sharper left turn, not so much from anger or fear, but from the desire to stay in his damn seat. As soon as he got the fishtailing truck back under control, he ripped at the seat belt, which refused to cooperate until he took a
deep breath and then delicately pulled the strap across his body.

  Emboldened by the crazed notion that two innocent women could die instead of just one, Brendan floored the accelerator. The truck shot forward, displaying impressive power as the vehicle slashed through the dry branches scratching at the paint. If Michelle made it through the night, Brendan promised to get her a new paint job when this was all said and done. He couldn’t promise he’d get her a new husband after he killed Grant, but he could only do so much.

  A series of unadvertised S-bends tested Brendan’s driving skills, and he wished for the first time that he’d brought his own damn truck. This one was only rear-wheel drive, and the back end gave him hell as he propelled the truck through turns meant for only a fraction of his current speed.

  He rounded a bend, corrected the truck’s over-steer, and found himself face to face with a ninety-degree corner dead ahead. The anti-lock brakes did nothing on the loose gravel. Feeling the back wheels slipping farther and farther around, Brendan gripped the steering wheel with all his might, but fought back the natural instinct to over-correct his course. As his velocity dropped, friction reengaged and dragged the truck to a lurching stop two feet away from the nearest trees, but at least he was facing the right way now.

  And up ahead he spotted Grant’s bright red truck struggling to get back on the road from a ditch on the right side. Apparently his brother hadn’t made the turn and had crashed into the trees. Sensing his advantage, Brendan jumped on the gas and directed the nose of his truck straight at Grant’s door.

  The roaring engine must’ve alerted Grant, because his brother turned aghast and floored it out of the ditch. Brendan’s truck missed the back of Grant’s by inches, and he fought to avoid slipping into the same fate Grant had just escaped from. Cutting back up onto the road, Brendan raced after Grant, who barreled down the straight road haphazardly.

  He couldn’t get too close up behind his brother without losing all visibility in the huge dust spray kicked up from Grant’s rear tires. Brendan slipped out to the left and reduced the gap enough to avoid the dirty wake. A blur of movement in Grant’s window caught Brendan’s eye. Before his brain could register the implications, Grant’s driver side window shattered with the muffled pop of his pistol. Brendan jerked his head, and his hands to the right, clipping the back of the red truck.

  As the two vehicles battled for position, Brendan’s primary thought was how freaking loud that gun must’ve sounded inside an enclosed truck cabin. There was no way his brother or Spee would be hearing anything for a while. Better than that, Grant’s shot hadn’t even made contact, at least not that Brendan could tell.

  The pistol appeared in the window again, bouncing up and down uncontrollably on the bumpy road. Brendan slammed his truck into the side of the red truck’s empty bed. The report of the handgun was much more pronounced this time, but the bullet only pinged off the hood, missing Brendan’s windshield.

  Grant’s truck suddenly slid out of view in a red blur. Brendan craned his neck backwards to see what happened, but turned back to the front urgently. The sharp turn ahead stampeded right at Brendan as he pounded on the brake pedal. The caliche under his wheels gave way to concrete pavement. When the tires finally gained purchase to slow him down, something slammed into the back of his truck, jarring his neck and sending him flying off the road.

  His view spun wildly and his body pressed impossibly hard against the door. Turning the wheel did nothing. Everything stopped in an instant, jolting Brendan’s forehead forward. The incredible slap to his face didn’t feel like the unforgiving resistance of the steering wheel. He opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by slowly deflating airbags.

  He let his head rest against the cushion for a moment. Things had got out of hand in a hurry. Remembering who had caused this wreck, he carefully maneuvered his hand to his pocket and grabbed the screwdriver he’d borrowed from Kim’s mom’s toolbox. Thankfully the damn thing hadn’t punctured his leg in the crash. A loud pop punished his ears as he stabbed the steering wheel airbag. He undid his seatbelt, letting it slide slowly across his torso while his ears rang. His door opened easily enough, and Brendan rubbed the side of his head as he stumbled out of the truck.

  Chapter 49

  Two simultaneous noises dropped Brendan to the dirt: a bullet thudding into Michelle’s truck, and the crack of the gun that fired it. He quickly scrambled across the dead grass to put the rear axle of the truck between him and Grant’s wrath. Leaning against the big tire, Brendan checked his own pistol one more time. Why hadn’t he grabbed one of the weapons lying around at the cabin? A shotgun would be handy right now.

  Another bullet ricocheted under the truck, making multiple impacts before whizzing out into the dirt past Brendan’s leg. He didn’t react. There was just as much chance of that kind of shot hitting him whether he moved or not. This wasn’t his first shootout, but he sort of liked the idea of making it his last. Getting shot at in the service of his country was one thing, but getting shot at by some dick meth dealer wasn’t worth the sacrifice.

  A couple of shots close together slammed into the bed on the other side of the truck. Brendan counted to three and then stood up carefully, hunching his back to keep the bed as protection. Now bent at the waist, Brendan leaned to the back of the truck, put one hand on the large bumper for support, and stole a peek around the edge of the tailgate.

  The red truck had flipped onto its side. Grant, apparently none the worse for wear, must’ve been using the center console as a step, because the top of his torso was extended out through the now upwards-facing passenger side window. Spotting Brendan, Grant squeezed off another round, barely missing Brendan’s retreating skull.

  “You always sucked at shooting,” Brendan yelled as soon as he resumed sitting with his back to the truck wheel.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  Another shot plowed into the truck somewhere, getting nothing more than a muffled thunk for its efforts. However many bullets Grant had in that pistol, Brendan was sure the guy was close to empty now. It was just a matter of time before the idiot wasted all of them. He did have a bad temper after all.

  “Shame you screwed this all up, bro,” Brendan called back. “Michelle’s a real nice lady.”

  “I told you to shut up!”

  No bullets that time. Brendan guessed he had to try harder then.

  “Great in the sack, too. Hard to find a chick her age who’ll do all those nasty things.”

  Brendan only knew his brother was screaming at the top of his lungs because of the inhuman roar resonating after all the remaining bullets were expended into the side of Michelle’s truck. The telltale click of the empty magazine needed no deciphering.

  He popped up over the top of the truck bed, smoothly leveled his sights on his brother’s head, and—

  Missed.

  Grant’s head dipped suddenly into the truck, his arms flailing up in the air, right as Brendan’s pistol kicked up with the release of its payload. Brendan never missed a target once, never mind twice. Fueled by this frustration, Brendan banged the gun against Michelle’s truck, gouging the paint. He paid no attention to this as he sprinted to Grant’s upturned pickup. With a simple jump he pulled his body up onto the outside of the truck bed, crying out when his wounded arm felt like someone had just sawed it off with a butter knife.

  Once the adrenaline overpowered the pain, Brendan crawled forward, now hearing the sounds of a struggle emanating from inside the passenger cabin below him. The view that greeted him when he peered in through the shattered window got him back on his feet, pointing his pistol downward.

  Special Agent Casey Spee, wrists bound in duct tape, legs still in the backseat, had both hands on Grant’s face, gouging his eyeballs. Grant gripped her wrists with one hand, but his other arm was twisted under him, out of view. With the way the two wrestled back and forth, Brendan had no shot. He tracked his brother’s movements closely, but Spee was attempting to crawl out of the backseat to get on
top of Grant.

  At Brendan’s appearance, Spee looked up. Grant’s body twisted suddenly. A glint of metal darted across the dark space. Before Brendan could pull the trigger, Grant, with blood leaking out of one eye, grinned up at him with Spee’s hair firmly in one hand and a knife in the other.

  She punched at him violently, but one hard yank on her hair twisted her head around. Her shoulders were forced to follow, pinning her arms uselessly under her. A thin line of red tracked across her throat where the tip of Grant’s knife had barely broken the skin as she rotated.

  Now finally Spee held still, and Brendan waited furiously for his brother’s next move.

  Chapter 50

  “You’re really shitty at this game.” Blood mixed in with spittle as Grant spat out each syllable.

  Brendan didn’t budge an inch. “Let her go.”

  Grant laughed merrily. “If you shoot me, my hand might just slip and cut a new mouth for Ms. Spee.” He lightly dragged the knife over her throat. “Right across here.”

  “Shoot him, Brendan,” Spee said awkwardly. Speaking with a sharp object poking at her neck didn’t seem that comfortable.

  “Yeah, shoot me, Brendan,” Grant imitated before cracking himself up again.

  He couldn’t live with Spee’s life on his conscience, Brendan knew that much. As long as he had his gun, there was a chance he’d find a shot.

  “How about you put that gun on the door there and get the hell off my truck?”

  Shit.

  “I can’t do that.”

  The knife penetrated a quarter inch against Spee’s neck. She screamed as her skin bowed under the pressure and then ripped open, but she kept the rest of her body motionless.

  “Oh, I think you can.” Grant smiled that vile fucking smirk that Brendan wanted to eradicate.

  Without a word, Brendan pulled the gun out of view, ejected the chambered round, and released the magazine onto the ground. No way in hell was this psycho getting his hands on a loaded weapon. He couldn’t tell if Grant had noticed or heard the mechanisms in action, so he just carefully placed the gun against the door panel.