Radford walks away from the phone.
The Vickers house at dawn is secluded to the point of isolation, manicured, exurban, surrounded by flowing meadows. From a hedgerow of trees Radford studies the place. It’s just past dawn. Nothing stirs.
While the sun rises, Radford waits with infinite patience, moving a few inches around the bole of his tree each time the sun begins to reach around to him. He’s not doing anything at all—just watching the house.
And an End …
In the open maw of a high barn somewhere in back hills a camouflage-painted Humvee stands squat and forbidding, like a sentry across the opening. Vickers walks in past it and sizes up the six men assembled: Conrad, Gootch, Wojack, Curly, Moe and Larry. They’re assembling automatic weapons that they’ve just cleaned and triple-checked. Moe’s is an Uzi submachine gun. Wojack, in neat Ivy League duds, sits on a crate, wiping down his 308 with the studied care of a perfectionist.
Vickers says without preamble, “They have a few questions for me.”
Wojack says, “Well they came to the right place. You’re the one with all the answers.”
Ignoring him, Vickers says to Conrad, “Seems they got a phone call from Radford … We have to assume those two talked their heads off in the gun shop.”
Conrad says, “I told Harry that blonde would get him done in.”
Gootch says, “So where’s Radford?”
For some reason this all amuses Wojack. “He was all used up. Didn’t care if he lived or died. It never occurred to you that you back him into a corner, he’d turn and fight. Poor bastard. They all think he’s a deranged homicidal maniac—some animal that needs to be exterminated. And here he’s the only innocent son of a bitch in a hundred thousand square miles.”
Vickers gives him a look, decides it isn’t worth the trouble, and turns to Conrad. “We have to assume Radford knows where I live. So that’s where he’s going to be. You’re all coming with me to wait for him.”
Gootch says, “What if the cops are there too?”
“Then he’ll die while resisting arrest.”
Wojack, thumbing cartridges into his rifle one at a time, inspecting each one with practiced care before it slides into the magazine, talks half to himself, with a soft note of derision. “Patriots. Heroes. How do you tell a freedom-fighter from a terrorist without a scorecard?”
Vickers snaps, “I’m paying you for your marksmanship, not your lip.”
Wojack shakes his head. “You people amaze me. Don’t you ever think of yourselves as the bad guys?”
Vickers answers civilly because he wants a convert. “We’ve tried working within the system. Hell, I practically am the system, but when you’re surrounded by idiots it’s no good. The world gets more dangerous every day and those morons just keep playing pork-barrel politics as if … Well we’re dealing with monsters who don’t play by rules. Assassination’s the only way to get at them. You cut off the head of the menace. And you keep cutting off each new head as it emerges, until they learn to change.”
Wojack slams the rifle’s bolt shut on the final cartridge. “Sure. I mean, you’re not trying to steal the deed to the ranch or anything. Bad guys never see themselves as bad guys.”
Conrad says, “And who the hell are you? Some hired two-bit hit-man!”
“It’s my trade. I’m a craftsman … At least I know what I am.”
The room is an office-library. Lots of high-polished woodwork. Radford stands just inside a kicked-open set of French doors. He’s looking at the display case beside him and the framed photographs on the leather-topped desk. Photos of Vickers in uniform getting medals pinned on his chest; Vickers in front of the White House; Vickers at a podium, flanked by American flags, addressing a crowd, with a big caption “Col. Damon Vickers,” and a big banner above his head that reads: “America Now!”
Radford has the nutcracker in one hand, a revolver in the other. He looks all around, ready for anything. Nothing stirs. He rams forward out of the room.
His charge takes him through a hallway into a big kitchen; all the mod cons. The stove is a gas range. There’s a center-island counter. Nobody in the room until Radford reels in from the hall. He looks around, picks a direction arbitrarily, plunges through a door …
Conrad drives a luxury sedan down the blacktop highway; Vickers and Wojack are in it with him. The other guys—Gootch, Curly, Larry, Moe—are in the Humvee four-by-four behind them. And there’s something ominous simply in the way the two-vehicle convoy rolls relentlessly forward, not speeding at all but somehow implacable, as if they’d run right over any innocent pedestrian who happed to be in their way and then they’d just keep right on going without even glancing back.
Radford prowls into a dining room. He hears a sound of approaching vehicles so he goes to a window and looks out and sees the two vehicles approach, crunching their way up the driveway, in no hurry. From this angle he can see the smashed-open French doors of the house, so he’s not surprised when the car and the Humvee stop some distance short of the place and seven guys get out. Radford recognizes Vickers, who examines the place with field glasses, then makes hand signals and leads the other six in a spreading-wide skirmish line, converging toward the house on foot, most of them carrying automatic weapons except for one Ivy League–looking man who hangs back, holding a 308 rifle at the ready but not joining in the war-game maneuvering. That one watches the troops with a pose that conveys sardonic bemusement.
Radford fades back into the house.
Vickers sends Conrad around one end of the house. Conrad goes, walking straight up as if invulnerable to enemy bullets—he knows Radford’s not going to shoot him without warning.
Vickers looks back, sees Wojack ambling forward with his rifle ready, and angrily waves Wojack toward the opposite end of the house. Wojack shrugs and turns that way, watchful but not enjoying this part of the game.
Radford squeezes himself into a narrow space so confining and so completely dark that he can hardly breathe. He begins to sweat—claustrophobia …
Without making a sound Gootch appears in the den, gun first, framed in the smashed-open French doors, and comes in, watching everything at once. Behind him the others curl into the room and fan out fast—Larry, Moe, Curly. Then Vickers enters behind them. Vickers signals with his automatic weapon toward the far door, and Gootch sidles out through it …
In the kitchen Gootch and Curly and Moe poke under counters and table, nobody making a sound.
In his narrow dark enclosure Radford is really starting to come unglued, but with a tremendous effort of will he remains absolutely motionless.
At one end of the house Conrad eases up to a window and looks in. He doesn’t see anything exciting.
At the opposite end of the building Wojack hangs back in the shade of a tree, studying the turf. He’s a sniper, not a close-quarters brawler; far as he’s concerned, snooping in closed quarters where you could get ambushed is not included in the price of his ticket. He stays by the tree.
Moe is stooping to pull a door open and look in the cabinet space under the kitchen sink when behind him a broom-cabinet pops open and Radford plunges out, gasping for air. Radford whacks Moe’s wrist with his nutcracker.
“Hey—!”
The nutcracker loosens Moe’s hold on the Uzi and whips the weapon away before Moe can figure out what’s happening.
Gootch and Curly wheel—Curly opens fire with his automatic weapon before he’s had time to see who he’s shooting at, and his bullets cut Moe in half.
Radford levels the Uzi; Curly ducks down behind the island counter … Gootch, facing the muzzle of Radford’s Uzzi, backs out into the hallway … Radford pulls the fridge door open and uses it for armor-plate while Curly shoots at him from behind the counter. Radford returns the fire. Bullets chatter and scream.
In the dining room Gootch comes windmilling back. Larry and Conrad run forward to join him. Vickers comes in from a hall door, seeing it all, understanding it instantly. Gootch yells desp
erately, “He’s a banana truck!” while in the kitchen Curly, on his knees, dodges around the end of the island counter, looking for a shot—and suddenly Radford comes vaulting over the counter, kicks the submachine gun out of Curly’s hand and slams Curly upside the head with the free-swinging end of his nutcracker. It lays Curly out cold.
… Gootch returns into the kitchen, followed by Conrad and Larry; and now suddenly Radford from behind the door is all over them—uses his nutcracker as a flail, holding one stick and swirling the other, bashing Gootch and Larry, not wanting to use the submachine gun that’s in his other hand; but Conrad is very fast—deflects the nutcracker by parrying with his gun, then (as Radford lifts the Uzi, ready to use it) wheels back outside with Gootch and Larry.
From the dining room side, Conrad slams the door. Immediately he and Larry and Gootch start firing bursts through the closed door. In no time at all their bullets splinter it, turning it into kindling.
Radford crouches behind the counter. Bullets come in through the closed door, busting the kitchen all to hell. Curly, dazed on the kitchen floor, groans and stirs; bullets are busting him all to pieces. The bullets also tear up Moe’s body.
Vickers yanks open a window—shouts outside: “Wojack—get your ass in here.”
Outside Vickers’ house several police cars arrive fast. Wojack, seeing them, dodges away from the tree with his 308 rifle and hurries into the house.
As Clay, Dickinson and cops spill out of the cars, they hear a brutal racket of automatic fire from inside the house. Dickinson says, “The hell?”
Vickers, having seen the approaching cops, shouts at the three guys but Gootch and Larry are still blazing away through the shattered door and Conrad is reloading and they don’t hear him. Behind them, Vickers slips quickly out of the room.
Gootch and Larry stop to refill their weapons. That’s when—in the abrupt silence—Conrad glimpses Radford—a faint movement beyond the barrier of the island counter—and Conrad opens fire viciously and—the bullets bust up the gas range.
The range explodes—and the fire rapidly begins to spread.
Radford, trapped behind cover against the counter, looks up and around, seeking a way out.
Wojack comes into the den through the busted French doors and stops to consider his options.
Through a kitchen window Radford comes hurtling out of the fire, falls to the ground, lands rolling, picks himself up, runs for cover. He’s still got the nutcracker but not the Uzi.
Behind him, inside the kitchen, Conrad kicks down what’s left of the door and bursts in, crouching, spraying bullets in an arc. The place is on fire. Gootch and Larry are right behind him. And they see there’s nobody here except the bodies of Curly and Moe. Conrad wheels to the busted-out window—and sees several cops running toward the house, led by Denise Clay.
Behind Commander Clay runs Don the waiter—now wearing a police uniform—lifting his revolver to aim at Clay’s back …
Dickinson, behind them both, sees what Don’s doing. In a flash—from the hip—he shoots. Don is hit; falls … Dickinson and a cop, running past, slow briefly to make sure Don is no longer a danger. Don is dead. They run on.
From inside the den, aiming out through the broken-open French doors, Wojack coolly draws a bead on the approaching Clay.
Clay sees the rifle aimed at her—hasn’t got a prayer …
Suddenly in a single startling motion Radford looms up through the French doors and slams Wojack to one side with the nutcracker.
Wojack falls back; the rifle shoots harmlessly into the air. Wojack works the bolt to load a new shell into the chamber but Radford kicks the rifle out of his hands … Slams Wojack again with the nutcracker. It dazes Wojack; he falls back against the wall.
Radford growls, “They’re gonna want you alive.”
And then he wheels to run into the house, as Clay approaches the window, having seen it all. “Radford—wait!” But he’s gone.
Dickinson rushes in ahead of her and picks up the discarded 308 rifle and claps handcuffs on Wojack.
Larry, Gootch and Conrad are backing away from the kitchen’s rapidly spreading fire, into the dining room. Larry shouts, “Where’s my brother?”
Conrad shoves him. “He bought it. Haul ass outa here.” He steers Larry quickly toward the exit—as Clay and Dickinson come slamming in. Conrad lifts his gun but Dickinson (with the 308 rifle) shoots first … Conrad goes down … Larry, moving like an automaton, lifts his automatic weapon and aims it at Clay—and Clay, regretting it, shoots Larry down … Dickinson shakes his head. “Jesus H. Christ.”
Radford spills out the front door, toting the nutcracker. He’s searching for Vickers; he runs along the burning side of the house. Two cops hold the stunned Wojack, handcuffed, in custody … Radford wheels around a corner, to find himself face-to-face with Clay and Dickinson.
And just then, behind the two cops, appears Vickers.
He comes up alongside Clay, every inch the federal man. Running a colossal bluff. He trains his gun triumphantly on Radford. “All right, scumbag. War’s over.”
But Denise Clay pushes Vickers’ gun aside. “Not him. You. Damon Vickers, you are under arrest …”
And suddenly the muzzle of Vickers’ gun is lodged against Clay’s throat and he’s making her drop her gun and he’s dragging her away, using her as a shield …
They freeze: Radford, Dickinson and the other cops—as Vickers backs away with his hostage … The house burns high …
Vickers drags Clay into the nearest car and turns the key in its ignition, all the while holding his revolver hard against Clay’s throat.
Dickinson lifts his gun. He’s going to open fire
Radford says, “Nobody shoots that good. What if you miss?”
Dickinson lowers the gun. Cops hold their fire; they watch helpless frustration as the car begins to back away.
Radford speaks very calmly—icy. “But he’ll kill her anyway! Only chance to save her is now.” And he plucks the 308 rifle from Dickinson’s grasp and in the same smooth synchronous motion drops to one knee and takes careful aim at the retreating car while it swirls backward, turning nose-out, ready for getaway. Dickinson thinks about making a move, decides against it, doesn’t know what the hell to do, and Radford, silhouetted against the flames of the burning house, steadies his aim. Like a rock.
The car slithers for purchase. It’s a very tricky moving target.
In the car Vickers removes the revolver from Clay’s neck long enough to whip the shift lever from reverse to drive, and that is when Radford squeezes off his shot—quick but steady and careful.
It hits square on the skull. Vickers’ head snaps to one side; he is instantly unconscious.
Clay grabs the revolver out of Vickers’ limp hand, and switches off the car’s ignition.
The car stops. Clay closes her eyes and breathes in, very deep, and out, all the way.
Dickinson follows Radford to the car, as Clay gets out and comes around—and looks Radford in the eye. Radford looks right back. In back of them the house burns.
Vickers is flopped back limp against the headrest, his head lolling, bleeding from the head wound. Clay opens the door and picks up Vickers’ wrist, feeling for a pulse.
Dickinson gently takes the 308 and the nutcracker from Radford. Radford doesn’t resist.
A couple of cops bring Wojack along, handcuffed.
Clay says, in surprise, about Vickers, “He’s alive.”
Radford says, “Yeah. I want to hear him explain all this.”
Wojack murmurs, “And a fascinating tale it’ll be.”
Dickinson yaps at a cop: “Call paramedics.”
Wojack looks up at Clay. “Tell you what. I’ll swap you the whole story for immunity from prosecution. What do you say?”
Radford and Clay meet each other’s gaze—now slowly they both begin to smile. She takes his hand in both of hers. A warm bond.
Vickers’ house colors the sky red with its leaping flames …<
br />
Dr. Trong parks his Jeep in that same spot across the street from the big lawn leading up to the Senator’s house—gardens, tranquility, solid establishment, wealth.
In the passenger seat Radford looks neat and refreshed in a new suit. The two men exchange glances. Dr. Trong nods, indicating the house.
Radford hesitates, then gets out of the Jeep and, with visible misgivings, walks toward the house, then looks back.
Dr. Trong just watches him.
Radford turns to face the door, and rings the bell.
It opens. Dr. Trong sees Dorothy there. At first she’s shocked. Then with a wonderful smile of disbelieving happiness she invites him in. He goes inside, and the door closes.
Dr. Trong smiles, and drives away.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Hit, copyright © 1970 by Brian Garfield.
The Marksman, copyright © 2000 by Brian Garfield.
This edition published in 2012 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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Hit and The Marksman Page 25
