by Bobby Adair
“Using those radios?” Tommy asked, talking about the toy attached to Gordon’s hip. “You know they’re not secure, right?”
Gordon held his walkie-talkie up and showed it to Tommy and Summer. “All we have. We try to stay smart about it, though. No names or locations or any of that.”
“A lot of these 704 guys carry sat-phones,” Summer told him. “You should tell your people to take those, too, when you’re scavenging the weapons from the men you kill or take prisoner.”
“They took my daughter,” said Gordon. “We’re not taking any prisoners.”
Summer looked over at Tommy. “You two are going to get along just fine.”
“Are your people ready to take the jail?” Tommy asked Gordon.
“I can’t speak for all of them,” answered Gordon. “But we’ll have enough.” He stepped up to the parapet and pointed down the street. “Problem is, we don’t know how many are holed up in the sheriff’s office. Across the street, in that building there, and that other, right across from it, they have 704s posted in case anyone mounts an assault on the police station.”
“You know how many?” Tommy asked.
“About,” answered Gordon.
Tommy weighed the factors for a moment and said, “Summer can draw a map for your people of the layout of the jail and sheriff’s offices. We’ll need some cars, and a couple big trucks.” He looked over at the encroaching fire. “And we need to do this quick. We don’t have much time.”
Chapter 27
From down the street, near where Tommy and Summer had parked waiting for Crosby to leave the sheriff’s office that morning, Tommy peered through a pair of binoculars. The shadowy shapes of the assault teams rushed into the alleyways behind the two buildings Lugenbuhl was using as guard towers for the jailhouse. In the light from the fire burning on the mountain, he saw more figures leap across the rooftops.
In scratchy words over Gordon’s walkie-talkie, Summer’s voice announced, “We’re in place. And Lugenbuhl’s BMW is still in the lot, so he’s probably in there.”
"Hit it," Tommy told her. He handed the walkie-talkie back to Gordon and glanced at the other driver who had volunteered for the suicide squad. "That's our go."
Far down the street, Gordon's citizen soldiers made a racket, beating on the back doors of both buildings. Gunfire followed a moment later. Glass broke on the storefronts, and what Tommy knew—but the 704s inside the two buildings didn't—was that killers were sneaking in through skylights or roof access doorways to surprise them.
Tommy climbed into an F-350 with a big iron brush guard bolted onto the front bumper. He tossed the binoculars aside, tucked his M4 between the driver’s seat and the console, and started the truck’s giant diesel. Through the window, he heard the other two trucks growl to life. Tommy buckled himself in and gunned the engine.
The truck ahead of him spun the rear tires, and accelerated up the street.
Tommy gave him a few seconds, then followed.
Gordon, in the last truck, gave Tommy some room, and came along after.
Tommy’s truck was passing forty when the truck ahead plowed through the narrow parking lot on the rear corner of the jailhouse, tearing out the chain-link fence, dragging thirty feet of it down the street.
The way was cleared for Tommy’s and Gordon’s trucks.
Bullets pinged off Tommy’s hood and shattered his windshield.
Tommy steeled his nerves, gripped the steering wheel, and bounced over a curb with a crash that sounded like it bent his rims, but the F-350 didn’t lose momentum. It sideswiped Lugenbuhl’s overprice German toy, and smashed through a brick wall that would have been much sturdier if Frank hadn’t skimped on materials when his company had added it in the renovation.
The airbag blew and slapped Tommy in the face, blinding him for a second. The seatbelts held him tight.
Tommy blinked his eyes clear as the airbag deflated, and he saw that he was—despite plenty of skepticism from Gordon's people—parked inside the building, alive in an office space that until just a moment ago contained twenty neatly arranged desks. Tommy's windshield was a spider web of broken safety glass. The front end of the pickup was smashed out of shape, and that thick, iron brush guard was sticking straight up, one end still attached to the truck, one end caught on an overhead pipe that was spewing water through a fog of dust.
Desks and office chairs lay jumbled around the truck. Papers floated in the air. Men and women wearing their 704 colors were recovering from the shock, those who Tommy hadn’t killed outright when he plowed through the wall. One had his senses about him enough to reach for his sidearm.
“Oh shit.” Tommy ducked to the right, unbuckling his safety belt and trying to pull his rifle out from where it seemed stuck beside the console.
Gordon’s truck bulldozed through the wall in an explosion of brick and wood, widening the hole, shattering office furniture, and crushing the would-be shooter.
Another cloud of dust filled the room.
Wiping his face and seeing red on his hand, Tommy realized the airbag must have bloodied his nose. He wrenched his rifle free and climbed out of the truck, stumbling over jutting desk legs and broken chairs to get his feet on solid ground.
A pair of human legs in black pants dusted gray stuck out from beneath his truck. A woman groaned from the other side of the room, and somewhere deep in the building, a man was shrieking nonsense.
Tommy raised his rifle, scanned for targets, and worked his way over forward. “You good, Gordon?”
“That was sick, man.” Gordon’s door creaked loudly as he pushed it open. “Let’s get these bastards.”
A 704 near the back wall stood and looked around.
Tommy fired a three-round burst. Blood splattered the wall, and the 704 dropped.
Someone yelled.
Gordon was on his feet, stomping through the debris. His people were coming through the breached wall, shouting directions at one another, and firing their weapons at enemies Tommy hadn’t yet spotted.
“You okay?” asked Gordon.
Tommy realized he was still recovering from the impact, though his head was clearing, even as he nodded.
A 704 climbed to his feet and stumbled through the door on the far side of the room. Three of Gordon’s people opened up on him.
A guy with a familiar face ran past and slapped Tommy on the back. “You guys are nuts.”
Gordon was stomping through the mangled office furniture, headed for the door. “C’mon. Surprise is on our side.”
Tommy looked at the gaping hole in the wall. Gordon’s people were still charging in, determined, ready for revenge or whatever was driving them, and then Tommy saw Summer come through, and he knew it was time to go, time to fight.
***
Two squads ran up the stairs, two headed into the lobby. Another sprinted for the office warren on the other side of the building. Gunfire blasted from every direction. Tommy led Summer, Gordon, and two others around a turn off the main hall, past the elevators, and break room, and around a final turn into a wide space with a row of sturdy chairs along one wall, and the cellblock’s control room on the other. It was just as Summer had described—solid wall from floor to waist, and glass from there to the ceiling.
Inside, a bank of control panels covered a desk and rows of video monitors covered one wall. A man with a smug face and a phone in his hand stood alone in the center of the room. Behind him, through the windows on the opposite wall, Tommy saw the cellblock.
Tommy raised his rifle and aimed it the controller's chest. He didn't ask the guy to open the door. He didn't make any threats. He fired a burst through the glass, and the man's face turned to pained surprise as he fell against the control panel, and slipped to the floor.
Gordon went after the glass with the butt of his weapon and in moments had it broken away.
Tommy climbed through, with Gordon behind.
Summer followed, going to look through the windows on the back wall as Tommy foc
used on the control panel.
“The police,” said Summer, tapping on the glass, “on level two. Cells B-1 through B-4.”
“Looking,” answered Gordon, his eyes scanning the controls.
Tommy found the switches to unlock the doors in the hallway that ran past the control room and opened the way into the cellblock. He flipped the switches and the sound of actuators clicked metal bolts open, unlocking the doors.
“The girls are on the first floor,” called Summer. “The cell is open. Lugenbuhl is in there.”
“Found ‘em,” shouted Gordon as he unlocked the cells on B-level.
Tommy rushed through the control room door, ran down the short hall, and swung the door open at the end as he ran onto the floor of the jail’s common area.
The metal cell doors on the upper level clanged open as sheriff's deputies and police officers piled through.
Summer, Gordon, and two more of Gordon’s people came rushing in behind Tommy.
Across the steel picnic-style tables on the main floor, and past the central staircase, the girls from the cells on the far end were filing out.
Taking up a position beside a support pillar, one of Frank’s 704s held his weapon at the ready, out where everyone was sure to see it.
Tommy was moving across the common area to his right, getting closer to the girls.
Gordon was going left, toward the cells, and the others were fanning out in-between.
Upstairs, one of the deputies shouted orders that everyone ignored.
Lugenbuhl, still behind the girls, started yelling his own orders, and punctuating them with the big nickel-plated revolver in his hand.
Tommy fired a single shot.
The guy behind the pole fell backward beneath a mist of red that exploded out of the back of his head.
Girls screamed.
More of the policemen and deputies hollered as their feet thundered down the steel stairs.
Tommy saw Emma among the girls.
Frank had already grabbed a blonde, Angela Hewitt, with one of his big hairy arms around her neck, as he tried to lean down and hide his bulk behind her while keeping his revolver pointed at her head. "Nobody else needs to die!" he shouted in a deep, panicky voice. "You'll lower your guns. I'll walk out of here, and leave her on the street. Everybody wins."
Gordon lost his cool and screamed at Frank.
Tommy lined up his shot. Frank wasn’t more than thirty feet away.
Frank barked a threat at Tommy and cursed at Gordon.
“Stop!” shouted Emma, as she stepped away from the group of girls. “Everybody stop.”
Tommy didn’t pull his trigger. Frank was safe—for now.
“This has to end,” Emma told them all.
“Frank,” urged one of the cops, “don’t hurt the girl.”
"Don't you see what you've all done?" Emma asked. "The country is burning.” She pointed at the man Tommy had just dropped. "We're killing each other.” Tears were in her eyes, and she stepped back among the girls. "This can't be the country you want to leave for us. I know everything's fucked up. I know everyone is outraged. I know you all think it’s always the ‘other guy.’ I know how passionately all you believe in your politics, but violence like this has to stop. What the hell do you think you’re doing? One of you has to choose not to pull the trigger, not to fire the next bullet. One of you has to be the one to make the hard choice and reach out a hand of peace. One side has to step off the fucking merry-go-round! We have to—"
“You should listen to her,” Frank shouted at Tommy as the barrel of his revolver angled away from Angela’s head. “You should—”
Tommy fired.
Lugenbuhl’s head jerked back, and his gun went off.
Angela screamed and collapsed.
Frank fell, and his pistol clattered to the floor.
Angela dropped, face in her hands, sobbing out of control, and Tommy knew she was unhurt.
Gordon lumbered across the room to comfort his daughter.
Emma fell to her knees, tears rolling down her cheeks, horror on her face as she stared at Tommy.
Summer ran over and wrapped her arms around Emma.
A woman, one of Gordon’s people, came running into the cellblock. “We have to get out of here. The fire’s a block away.”
***
Outside, Gordon’s people were running, some with terror in their eyes, others asking what to do, a few breaking into cars, and one of the deputies—a guy with a uniform that made him appear to be in charge—was shouting orders and pointing toward the lake, yet he was impossible to hear in the roar of the wind and the inferno.
A pickup raced by, headed toward the highway.
Gunfire still rang through the streets.
Tommy had both hands on his rifle and the butt at his shoulder as he stopped in the street, ready to shoot anything that dared to look like a threat. Summer, dragging Emma by the hand, stopped beside Tommy.
A wind rushed past them, sucking everything toward the flames. A tornado of fire swirled up over the burning homes behind the jailhouse. The heat felt like an oven set on broil.
Summer shouted, “We can’t get to the Razor.”
Tommy didn’t think they could get out of town, even if they could.
Gordon ran up beside them, his daughter’s hand in his. “Where to?”
Emma pointed toward the lake, “That canoe place.”
Tommy knew precisely where she meant. He hadn't spent much time at home since they'd moved to Spring Creek, but when he had, he'd tried to make the days special—skiing, hiking, four-wheeling, and canoeing on the lake. He, Emma, and Faith spent an Independence Day in rented kayaks one year, watching the fireworks explode in the sky above. Between kayaks and canoes, the place must have had two hundred boats, and it was only eight blocks away.
***
Boats were already in the water when they arrived. People were paddling for the far shore. A pair of bolt cutters was being passed from hand to hand to cut the chains locking the canoes and kayaks to the rack, each cut freeing another ten. The doors on a shed that held paddles were swinging open.
The inferno consuming Spring Creek had crossed over Main Street and had covered half the distance to the lake in its full fury.
Men and women were working together to haul boats to the shore. Some were dragging kayaks alone. Others were running to find paddles.
Were there enough boats for everyone?
In the chaos, Tommy couldn't tell.
“Summer,” Tommy said, “you cover me, I’ll—”
“We’ll get a canoe,” Summer told him, meaning she and Emma. “You keep us covered.”
Tommy accepted the plan as he looked over at Gordon. “You two grab something.” Tommy patted his rifle to let them know he protect them all.
Summer hurried past Tommy, telling him, “Don’t shoot anyone unless you have to.”
Gordon took the lead, running over to a rack where the canoes were still chained down. A woman two racks over was cutting a chain with the bolt cutters and having trouble with it. Gordon gave Tommy a look, as if to ask, ‘what do you think?' and then he changed his mind. He climbed up on the wooden rack holding the canoes, and he jumped, coming down with all of his weight on a cross brace. It cracked, satisfying and loud. Gordon grinned and hopped again.
“Are we going to make it?” Emma asked Tommy, suddenly not an orator, not a leader, not a hero, but his little girl again.
Tommy made a vow to himself as he gripped his M4, it didn’t matter how many people he had to kill, innocent or not, he was going to put Emma in a canoe and save her life.
More and more canoes were going into the water, loaded with two, three, and four people.
“Goddammit!” Gordon growled as he jumped again and again.
Tommy glanced at the fire, tried to guess how long they had, and dropped his rifle to swing on the harness, to climb up with Gordon. Just then, the support gave way, the canoe rack collapsed, and Gordon tumbled to the ground.<
br />
Angela was beside him in a flash, helping him back to his feet, making sure he was okay.
Summer and Emma helped Tommy pull one of the canoes away from the jumble, dragging a length of chain and long pieces of broken board with it.
“Grab another,” Tommy told them, as he rolled the canoe onto its back, and stomped on an aluminum cross brace the chain was looped around.
Tommy felt the fire's heat and looked up to see that it had jumped another street and was raining embers down on the houses between the blaze and the lake.
More people were around, tugging at the canoes Gordon had freed, trying to claim one and pull it to the shore.
Gordon already had one set aside, and like Tommy, had broken a cross brace to free it from the long loop of chain.
Together, they hauled their canoes toward the water.
“Are there enough boats?” asked Emma, glancing around at the fleeing people, some running wild-eyed past the lakeside houses, arriving late to the conclusion that the boat rental was their only salvation.
Summer set the bow of the canoe into the water and Tommy pushed it out. “Get in.”
Summer climbed in, taking with her one of the paddles they’d picked up along the way. As Gordon and Angela loaded up, Emma stood on the shore beside Tommy, staring back down the street leading into town. The flames overtook a handful of people sprinting toward them. Their shrieks cut through the roar of the blaze, and Emma’s tears flowed again.
Gunfire out on the water caught Tommy’s attention, but he decided it was a danger he couldn’t think about—not yet.
Gordon shoved off, and his canoe skimmed out into the lake.
Tommy put a hand on Emma’s arm. “We can’t save everyone. If we don’t go soon, we’ll die here, too. Please get in.”
“Please,” Summer begged. “Emma, c’mon.”
She sniffled, turned, and climbed into the canoe.
Tommy didn’t wait for her to sit. He shoved the canoe into the icy water, soaking his feet as he pushed through the shallows before hopping in. Summer was already paddling when Tommy picked up his paddle and dug into the water.
