“Oh, shit,” Turner said.
He continued to depress the accelerator. “Come on, damn you, move!” he coaxed his Ford. “Move!”
The truck slammed into his tailgate again. Turner fought to keep his pickup from fishtailing, but it was a futile attempt given the force of the impact.
The highway turned to water as Turner’s eyes widened in fury. He was suddenly staring at sky and then the sheer cliff of the ravine off the side of the road. He took his hands off the wheel, an instinctive gesture, as the ground raced toward him.
Preston Giles stepped out from behind the driver’s seat of the truck. He walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down.
Oopsy daisy, he thought. That’s what happens when you stick your nose where it shouldn’t be stuck.
He did not dwell on his handiwork for more than a second. He got back behind the wheel and angled the vehicle back onto the road, driving off into the horizon.
When Turner opened his eyes, he was no longer in his truck. The sky seemed to spin above him. He knew he was dying even before he felt the pain, which was oddly minimal.
A man can feel when death is near. The words came to him from something he had read a long time ago in a book or short story. He couldn’t recall where or when, not that it mattered. His breathing was short, labored. Sounds were distorted. He saw Lou Diamond move down the hill, tripping, falling once. Behind him were paramedics, police officers, ambulance personnel. No doubt, all coming to see him.
Diamond got to him first. Turner lifted his hand up to feel his eyes. He could see that his hand was missing, a bony, bloody stump in its place.
“Oh, Jesus,” Diamond snarled to himself.
Must not look too good, Turner noted inwardly. Must be badly bunged up, or chopped up. If Lou Diamond looks worried, even remotely frazzled, you can bet the chilly side of a witch’s tit that things were not looking cheery.
Diamond suddenly turned and yelled to the police and paramedics that had caught up with him.
“I want a moment with him!” he said.
“He needs immediate—”
“I SAID I NEED A FUCKING MOMENT!” Diamond roared.
The cops backed off, but the paramedics, momentarily bitching among themselves, were indecisive.
Diamond didn’t waste time.
He leaned toward Turner.
“Who did this to you?” he asked.
Turner could remember that much. “Truck. Big, semi-rig. Suits. They knew me,” Turner fought for words. “Knew who I was.”
He began to convulse. Diamond held on to him. Blood gushed from the dying man’s mouth, but it did not shut Turner up. “You can’t—win this one, old friend. Walk away. Now—”
Turner’s one good eye remained firmly fixed on Diamond. The other eye hung from a single strand of tissue, which suddenly snapped. Diamond looked away, not wanting to see where the eye fell to.
Turner’s breathing was ragged as he fought for, and found, his voice. “I’m outta here, buddy. Careful.” Turner took one small gasp, and then died.
“Lieutenant, for god’s sake—” one of the cops was urging from behind him.
Diamond nodded and allowed the paramedics to take over – a lost cause. Diamond stared at the smoking remains of Turner’s truck. They had killed his friend. For what? Because of him? His brother? Had they tapped the last phone conversation between he and Turner?
Yeah, that was probably it.
The forces behind whatever fueled Arc-Link and beyond, had no limitation in scope and breadth and execution of deed. Their power seemed to be unlimited. Turner was probably right.
I should walk away from this. Today. Now. Get Sonia, pack the car, head down Mexico way and keep my goddamn mouth shut.
But he knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Diamond moved back up the cliff-face and got into this car. He was five minutes from Turner’s house. Whoever had done this to Turner was either still there or had finished ransacking the place, searching for an item that only Turner and he knew about.
With any luck at all, they would still be there.
He hoped so. Oh, yes, he really did.
TWENTY-NINE
He parked two blocks away, and moved with stealth toward the isolated two bedroom townhouse Turner owned. The house sat on top of a small mesa along with two other townhouses. From the air, they formed a perfect triangle.
Diamond couldn’t see any other cars parked in front of Turner’s place. Not that this meant a damn thing. Like him, whoever had killed Turner had decided on the non-obvious approach to breaking and entering. In other words, they had parked their vehicles some distance away. Possibly.
It was a foolhardy thing to do, but he figured no one would ever expect an old fashioned kick the door down kind of approach toward entering. The front door caved as he punted it inward. Gun up, he spotted all points on the compass, save his rear. Nothing. No one. So far, so good.
The living room was predictably a mess. Not unlike what Robert August’s room resembled several hours earlier. Pillows from the couch had been rended, every glass and plate in the place was junk on the floor. Diamond give a damn about what was taken from the living room.
He knew that what he searched for was out in the garden. Only he and Turner knew of the secret hiding place of so many years.
Diamond moved past the mess in the front room then exited the terrace, gun still poised. He doubted very much if whoever had done this was still around, but he would take no chances.
Diamond looked across the garden at the only tree standing. An oak loomed toward the sky against the far fence. The tree was dying, its branches had long ago given up hope of ever producing leaves again. From here, Diamond could see the small clump of bushes at the tree’s base.
The bushes that covered a small trap door.
Diamond ran across the garden and tore the bushes away from tree, ripping open the small trap door in the ground. He pulled out a single file folder and noticed there were still more items in the small dirt compartment.
He reached in and pulled out a .45 automatic pistol and a full clip.
“Turner, you beautiful bastard,” he said, his eyes beginning to tear.
And then the world exploded. It was suddenly raining bullets and they were coming damn close to him. He crawled quickly behind the large oak. Strafing fire now took out the windows of Turner’s house and made its way in a bee-line toward the oak that protected Diamond.
They knew he was here. Had they followed him?
Or just been waiting.
He could tell the shots were being deployed as a fear tactic. They had spotted him, he was sure of it. But they didn’t want him dead. Not yet anyway.
“Officer Diamond,” a voice sang out from somewhere above, “come out with your hands behind your head.”
The chopper seemed to come out of nowhere. A man with a bullhorn resting on one leg sat on the pontoon and cradled a long-scope rifle in his hand.
Diamond looked beyond the fence. Other snipers were walking toward Turner’s property, bold as hell, not knowing (or perhaps not caring) that Diamond was armed.
He sprinted back toward the house, a calculated but risky move considering that the shooters had no trouble hitting the house whatsoever.
Predictably, a barrage of bullets zinged his way. He did not enter through the back door, opting rather for a dive through the door-size windows that comprised Turner’s back bedroom.
He rolled and then fired out into the adjoining living room. A scream filled the air and Diamond heard the sound of a body crash to the floor. He was on his feet now, firing, running. Another body crashed against a wall. Both men were dead by the time Diamond was hugging the front door frame. He looked at the gunmen on the ground and then quickly out the window.
A semi-rig was coming around the corner. Backup of sorts, he guessed. More adversarial personnel, just to take out little ol’ me, he thought. He heard the chopper still hovering above, along with the squawker gunman rattling
on.
“Officer Diamond, we have you surrounded. This is the FBI, please surrender yourself.”
Diamond almost laughed. The FBI announcement was for neighbors or witnesses —these guys were about as FBI as he was the Easter Bunny. He glanced at his car which was still parked two blocks down. He’d never make it at a run. He then remembered the corpses resting nearby.
He went to the nearest man, rifled through the jacket pockets and found blood and keys. He pulled out the keys and looked at the black sedan outside. Twenty yards at most.
Diamond took out Turner’s backup .45 and loaded the clip. He closed his eyes for one brief moment. He’d get only one shot at this, and he hoped the engine to the sedan turned over immediately.
The chopper hovered just within eyeshot. The semi-rig was lumbering up the drive. No other sedans were in the vicinity but that was no guaranty that there weren’t other shooters on foot, hidden behind trees, trash cans, bushes or bordering fences.
No choice. He had to move.
He kicked the door open and aimed both guns at the gunman holding the bullhorn above. Three shots sent the man screaming with surprise down to the sidewalk. Three more shots found the front windshield to the chopper.
The chopper did a strange one eighty spin, then began a near vertical descent for the ground.
Diamond didn’t wait for the inevitable crash. He was already running for the sedan.
When the chopper hit, it exploded into a wall of fire which damn near enveloped the sedan Diamond had just crawled into, but it successfully blanketed Turner’s house.
Neighbors were screaming nearby, and Diamond could make out at least two more gunmen running from up the street. He also noticed that the motherfuckers were wearing FBI flack-jackets. Good for witness descriptions, once again.
Meanwhile, the semi-rig was bearing directly down on him.
And he still hadn’t turned over the ignition.
“Come on, you bitch,” he bellowed. “Start!”
Heeding this gentle command, the car turned over instantly.
Diamond hit the accelerator and skidded just a foot past the semi-rig and down the hill. He looked in his rear view mirror and noticed the semi-rig jackknifing itself in an effort to take up pursuit.
Another chopper appeared on the horizon.
Jesus Christ, why didn’t they bring out Elsie the Robotic Super-Cow while they were at it?
The semi-rig had negotiated itself around the cul-de-sac of Turner’s property and was now barreling in pursuit. The chopper was ahead of it, hovering above by thirty feet. Gunfire crackled from either side of the airship, dual guns bearing down on him.
The sedan was fast, but Diamond knew he had to shake the truck and the chopper. How?
He sped down the winding road of Topanga Canyon Blvd., his eyes flitting to the rear view mirror every second or two to mark the semi-rig’s velocity behind him. The driver was pulling no punches. His speed was accelerating, and be damned about the weight behind him.
The chopper maintained speed, still firing at his sedan. The rear windows suddenly exploded. Diamond ducked, fighting for control of the steering, and glanced down at the precious file that Turner had saved for him.
He looked ahead and saw a small, ancient gas station near a bend in the road. The owner, an old man, stared at the approaching vehicles.
Diamond gauged the distance of the chopper and the semi-rig and made a decision. He barreled straight for the gas station.
The old man, no fool, saw what was heading his way. He ran, and for this relief much thanks, Diamond thought.
He grabbed his folder, took a breath, and opened his passenger door.
When he fell and rolled it was damn painful, but he could tell instantly that he was not hurt. If he didn’t get up and run fast, for some shelter, that would not remain a permanent condition.
The sedan continued forward, barreling into the nearest gas tank. The tank and sedan exploded simultaneously. The fireball rocketed upward and engulfed the chopper, which had not prepared itself for the resulting conflagration of fire and smoke. Blinded, the chopper smashed into the nearby cliffs above the station.
The semi-rig, stunned by the recent turn of events, was going too fast to brake. It veered slightly, trying to decelerate, but too late. The bulk of the truck connected with the remaining gas tanks and suddenly the world was awash with flame and screaming men.
Diamond watched as the gunmen and the driver piled out of the semi-rig and tried to run from the sea of fire. To no avail. The five men were enveloped in white death, searing and broiling their bodies.
Diamond did not wait to see the scene play out to the end. He moved down the opposite hill clutching the file that his best friend had died for not even an hour earlier.
THIRTY
Well, I will be buggered. It was all Preston Giles could think of at the moment.
He had watched the scene play out in all of its magnificence. The trucks, the agents, the helicopter. He had organized the hit on Turner’s house himself, knowing that Diamond would most assuredly show up. His first instincts had been correct. He should have handled Diamond solo, but it was LeMay who had overruled him. When Giles had reported in that Turner Sage was dead and that he was going after Diamond, LeMay insisted once again on overwhelming, crushing force. This included trucks, helicopters and men. Giles had sighed, saying this was all unnecessary and, by the way, wasn’t Diamond, Giles’ personal responsibility?
“Not anymore,” LeMay responded. “I’m tired of this shit. We nail him now and goddamn permanently. Where Diamond is concerned, Preston, we’re all having a loss of confidence here.”
Giles took no offense at this. In a way, LeMay was right. He had been dragging his feet with Diamond. Perhaps because he was almost reluctant to kill the man. He had so much fucking spirit!
Giles simply said fine, he’d watch the show as Diamond was, as they say, put to rest.
You do that, LeMay had said, then hung up.
And so Giles had done exactly that.
And what a show it had been.
One helicopter, one truck, one sedan, and probably a dozen men dead. And Diamond was still inhaling and exhaling.
Giles watched as Diamond ran out of sight.
He knew where he was going.
Giles started the engine of his car.
Lou Diamond was a magnificent adversary, but it was time to put the grand old lion down. No one better to do it, Giles thought somewhat whimsically, than another old lion all too familiar with the hunt and the ultimate kill. He reached for his cell phone and dialed a number.
“Yeah,” a voice said dully from the other end.
“Bobby, it’s me,” Giles said. “Listen, I need a few of our old friends this evening. I hope you can squeeze this into your schedule.”
“Something special?” the voice called Bobby inquired.
“Very special. Very professional. You’ll like the challenge,” Giles said.
“‘Bout fucking time,” Bobby responded. “I’m tired of beer and Christmas carols.”
Giles smiled at that.
“Ho, ho, ho,” Giles said. “Got a pen handy?”
THIRTY-ONE
“Where’s Sonia?” Diamond asked quickly, dispensing with the perfunctory greeting to Lita. He looked like hell, he knew that much, and his appearance was reflected back in Lita’s face as shock and fear.
“Lou, my god—”
“Where is she, Lita?”
Lita began shaking her head back and forth, an amalgam of confusion and increasing fear creasing her brow. “The men—they came for her.”
Diamond froze for a second, then he grabbed both of Lita’s shoulders, perhaps too roughly because he saw her wince. “What men?”
“Men—men,” she stammered, “Men from the government. They took her. Told me you approved—”
The news hit him in the pit of the stomach. For a moment, he thought he would faint. Lita rushed on, sensing the imminent wrongness of Diamond’
s reaction. “They had badges, Lou. They said she was under state protection. On your orders. And that they thought you were right about meeting them later at the law firm. They wanted me to tell you that.”
Diamond blinked in confusion, then forced his mind to work. Law firm. They were blackmailing him. His daughter. The file in his possession.
That, and him dead, probably thrown in as an added non-negotiable bargaining chip.
That simple. For the first fucking time.
He released Lita and leaned against the front door, nodding to himself.
“Okay. Okay,” he whispered, nodding.
Lita by now had fully digested the import of Diamond’s reaction. “Oh, dear god,” she whispered. “They kidnapped her, didn’t they?”
He had no time for explanations. “Get your car, Lita. And as much money as you have. Then go see a police officer named Burke. The Department will tell you where he is. Only Burke, you understand? After you give this to him, you go away. You disappear. Claro?”
“No, I don’t—”
“Doesn’t matter. Just do as I say,” he said quickly, already out the door. “I’ll get Sonia.”
THIRTY-ONE
Diamond moved past the security carousel without difficulty this time around. One flip of his badge and the guard, someone he didn’t recognize, just smiled and nodded. One of them? Diamond wondered. Probably not. Christmas time, floating personnel, just some fill-in guy who could give a shit about people going in and out as long as they presented some kind, any kind, of I.D.
Probably wasn’t difficult for the men who had Sonia to get in, either. Not that they would have used the front entrance. With their connections, they probably had access keys to the freight elevators of the building. A preferable mode of entry especially with a frightened little girl in tow.
He wondered vaguely if indeed Sonia would be here. It could have been a lie they fed to Lita—to get him here. Sonia may be held someplace else, or—
Gray Area Page 16
