Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield

by J. D. Rhoades

  Donovan smiled.

  __________

  “I do believe we’re getting closer,” Dushane said.

  The neighborhood they were driving through had been upscale, large houses sitting on spacious wooded lots. But the storm hadn’t taken any more notice of the affluence than it had of the trailer parks a scant few miles away to which it had also laid waste. There were signs of damage everywhere: downed trees, piles of fractured lumber next to houses with gaping holes facing the street, blue tarps covering gaps in roofs torn open by ferocious winds. Wolf was at the wheel, moving slowly so as to better survey the area. Dushane rolled a window down. The whine of machinery and the jagged roar of chainsaws cut through the thick, humid air.

  Dushane looked down at her phone. “Turn right here.” Wolf took the right turn. Here there were more trees down, more and even bigger houses with stripped shingles and damaged outbuildings. Then…

  “Mother of God,” Dushane said.

  Where the tornado had actually touched down, the devastation was total. There didn’t seem to be any place where one brick was left atop another. Million-dollar houses were scattered across the ravaged landscape as if picked up and tossed in the air by a giant hand. Unlike the place they’d just left, there was no one working in the ruins. They passed a man and woman standing beside a Mercedes SUV next to a lot that looked less like a residence than it did a dump for construction waste. The man was staring at the pile, the woman’s head buried in his shoulder. Her shoulders shook. As they passed by slowly, the man turned to look at them. His face was blank with incomprehension.

  “Left here,” Dushane said, her voice hushed.

  “This looks like a driveway,” Wolf said.

  “It is. It’s Monroe’s address.”

  The road led through what had once been a stand of trees that had shielded the house from the view of the neighborhood. The few trees that were left were stripped of foliage. Some were twisted into a corkscrew shape, like green sticks. Others were tumbled into untidy piles, their roots exposed like the tentacles of some dead undersea creature. The driveway ended in front of a mound of rubble where a house had once stood.

  “I don’t think anyone’s home,” Dushane said.

  Wolf pulled the car to a stop and killed the engine. “If she was in there,” he said quietly, “she’s dead.”

  “You don’t know that,” Buckthorn said. He got out of the back seat. Dushane and Wolf looked at each other. Wolf shrugged. They got out as well.

  “Look,” Buckthorn said. He was pointing off to the side of the property, where a yellow front-end loader with a backhoe was sitting. He walked over to the pile. Wolf and Dushane followed him. “Someone’s been moving this stuff around,” he said. He pointed. “There’s a cleared space there.”

  “And…shovels,” Dushane said.

  “Where…oh.” Wolf said. He saw them, standing upright, stuck in the soil of the back yard. An axe lay in the grass next to them.

  Buckthorn walked over to the cleared area. Debris had been moved aside, leaving an area of intact flooring. Piping and electrical conduit stuck up raggedly at the edge like the dangling nerves and veins of a severed limb. “This is the place they were interested in,” Buckthorn said. “Like they knew something was here.”

  “Or someone,” Wolf said.

  “But there’s nobody here,” Dushane said.

  “Not above ground,” Buckthorn said. He stomped on the floorboard, hard. “CALLIE!” he shouted. “CALLIE PRESTON!”

  Silence.

  Buckthorn stomped again, harder. “CALLIE! YOU DOWN THERE, GIRL?”

  “There’s nothing there, Tim,” Wolf said.

  Buckthorn ignored him. “COME ON, CALLIE! GIVE US A SIGN! SOMETHING! ANYTHING!” He paused.

  “This is getting…” Dushane began.

  “Shhhh…” Buckthorn said. He bent over, listening, then got down on his hands and knees on the exposed floorboard. “I hear something.”

  “Tim,” Dushane said. “Come on, man, it’s not…” She stopped as he held up his hand. Then she heard it.

  From beneath the floorboard, a slow, faint, but distinct tap. Then another, louder one. Then a third.

  Then silence.

  __________

  When she first heard the voice, she thought she must be dreaming. Then she thought maybe it was the voice of God, calling her home. But why would God be asking her for a sign? Wasn’t He the one that showed people signs? She snapped to sudden awareness. There was someone up there, but it wasn’t God, and the voice wasn’t coming from Heaven. Someone was looking for her. Someone who knew her name. Dad? She thought, but it didn’t sound like him. She had to let them know she was down here. She tried to cry out, but all that came out was a dry croak. She tried again. Nothing. She groped frantically around in the dark for something, anything she might use to make noise with. Her hand closed around a piece of wood that had fallen into the tiny void where she was trapped. She grasped it in her cuffed hands and reached up, trying to strike the ceiling above her head. She couldn’t get her hands up high enough. She heard another voice, fainter. It sounded like a woman. She stretched, stood on her tiptoes. She felt the hunk of wood brush against the ceiling. Summoning what felt like the last of her energy, she jumped upward . It rapped against the boards above her head. She jumped again. It struck the ceiling again, harder, sending a shock up her weakened arm. The third jump knocked the piece of wood from her hand. She sank down again, exhausted. After a moment, she began groping for the hunk of wood. She couldn’t find it. She flailed her hands in frustration against the darkness, as if it was something she could beat down. They were there. They were so close. They had to have heard her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “You heard that, right?” Dushane said.

  “Yeah,” Wolf replied.

  Buckthorn was already moving towards the tools he’d seen, particularly the axe lying in the grass. He thought about his own patrol car, its trunk crammed full of rescue and survival gear from rain ponchos to flares to chainsaws. He had no idea what the FBI carried around in their cars, but it was worth a shot.

  “Tony, Leila,” he called back, “Check the trunk of the car for tools. Someone call EMS. Tell ‘em we’ve got someone trapped in rubble.” He reached the axe, looked back. Dushane was in a dead run towards the car. Wolf had his cell phone to his ear, talking quickly. Buckthorn felt a strange sensation of warmth and satisfaction spread through him. He spent so much time worrying and fretting and planning for the worst to happen, driving the men and women under him without mercy, training constantly so they’d be ready when it did. But when the balloon actually went up and the crisis began, he felt calm. He recalled the first time he’d met Wolf, back in Pine Lake, when Wolf had taken the TV reporter and her cameraman hostage. He’d been frustrated when Wolf had gotten away, but before that, there’d been a part of him, deep in his core, that had felt perfectly at home. It was where he was meant to be, in the middle of the crisis, with people who knew their jobs and who’d get them done or die trying. And now, here he was, with the man he’d tried to capture, on the same team. And Dushane rounded out the mix perfectly. They weren’t his team, but they were a team, and they’d get this done. He was actually grinning as he shouldered the axe and headed back to the rubble pile.

  Wolf was snapping the phone shut as Buckthorn reached him. “ETA seven minutes,” he said. Dushane came running up, a disgusted expression on her face. “Nothing in the trunk but someone’s gym bag. Someone who really needs to rinse out some things.”

  “Okay,” Buckthorn said. He leaned over. “CALLIE,” he yelled. “HANG ON, SWEETHEART. WE’RE COMING IN TO GET YOU.” He straightened up and looked at the other two. “Stand back,” he said. He raised the axe over his head and brought down onto the wood flooring, as heard as he could. The heavy forged steel blade bit deep, burying itself in the wood with a heavy thunk that shook the floor beneath their feet.

  “Don’t you want to wait…” Wolf began. Buckthorn
looked up at him as he wrenched the axe free. “Never mind,” Wolf said. “Let me know when you want me to take a turn.”

  “Hey,” Dushane said. “Someone’s coming.”

  Buckthorn paused and looked. A large black truck was cruising slowly up the driveway.

  __________

  “Fuck. Me,” Donovan said.

  “We’re both fucked,” Lofton said. He was behind the wheel. “The guy with the axe is a cop.”

  “Not a local,” Donovan said. “The uniform’s different.”

  “Not a state cop, either,” Lofton said. “I got a couple on the payroll, and that ain’t their uniform.”

  “Beats me, but unless I miss my guess,” Donovan said, “the other two are cops as well.”

  “What the fuck are we going to do?”

  Donovan reached for his gun. “We take care of this.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Lofton said. “Look at what they’re doing. You think that guy’s trying to lay in some wood for the fireplace? They’ve found the girl.”

  “How?” Donovan demanded.

  “Who gives a damn how? They did. And you know they’ve called for backup. We need to get out of here.”

  Donovan was silent, his jaw working furiously. He hated the idea of running. Anything but forward motion felt like surrender. He was from a long line of people who’d starve themselves to death before they’d surrender. Anyway, where could he run to? Lofton wasn’t waiting for a suggestion. He was backing the truck up, swinging it around for a three- point turn.

  __________

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Dushane said. The truck was backing up, starting to turn around.

  “Yeah,” Buckthorn replied. He started to drop the axe, then stopped and held it out to Wolf. “Your turn.”

  Wolf hesitated. “You don’t have any jurisdiction here, Lieutenant.”

  Buckthorn let the axe drop. It landed on the floorboards with a deep thump. I don’t care,” he said. He started towards the FBI car. He felt rather than saw Dushane trotting alongside. “You stay here,” he said.

  “Like hell I will,” she shot back. “That’s an FBI vehicle, cowboy, even if we don’t strictly have authorization to use it.”

  “Those guys might be dangerous.”

  “Probably. But I have a gun. More to the point, I have the keys.”

  Buckthorn drew up short as they reached the car and looked at her. “Give them to me.”

  She stared back, her jaw set. “No.”

  “Damn it, Leila,” he started, but Wolf interrupted him. “Get moving, you two!” he shouted.

  Buckthorn looked down the driveway. The truck had completed the turn and was accelerating away. He could hear the sound of sirens approaching. “Fine,” he snarled. He ran to the passenger side and slid in. The engine roared and the acceleration pushed him back in the seat as he fumbled for the seat belt.

  “I saw two people in the front seat,” she said. “I’d be really surprised if they weren’t armed. Get on the radio and see if you can get us some backup.” She hit a switch and a siren began to wail. The big black truck in front of them was accelerating. Dushane pressed harder on the gas and the big car responded smoothly, closing the gap. An ambulance passed them going in the other direction, lights flashing, siren wailing as if in answer to their own, dropping suddenly and dramatically in pitch as they streaked past each other. They passed the couple they’d seen earlier, still standing outside their ruined house. They were moving fast enough that the figures were nothing but a blur, but Buckthorn registered a brief glimpse of mouths hanging wide open in surprise. He turned his attention back to the unfamiliar dashboard. He studied the radio for a moment, then picked up the mike and pressed what he hoped were the right buttons. “All units, all units, this is FBI car number…” he paused. “What the hell number are we, anyway?”

  “Damned if I know,” Dushane muttered. “I’m a stranger here myself.” She gave a grunt of surprise and yanked the wheel to the left as a compact car came out of a driveway to their left, almost into their path. The car swerved sickeningly for a moment, then Dushane got it back under control.

  “FBI car,” Buckthorn said awkwardly. “We’re on…” he looked around. “All the street signs are down.”

  “Look at the GPS,” she said. Her teeth were gritted, in concentration rather than irritation. They were coming out of the zone of total devastation, into a more heavily traveled area. Her eyes darted from side to side, looking for hazards, before fixing again on their quarry. They were gaining on the black pickup.

  “Woodlawn Drive,” Buckthorn spoke into the microphone, squinting at the tiny screen of the GPS bolted to the dash.

  A voice came back, tinny with static and harsh with irritation. “Who is this? This is a secure channel. Identify yourself.”

  “I thought I just did,” Buckthorn muttered. He jammed his hand against the headliner above him to brace himself as Dushane slewed the Crown Vic around a curve. There was a sharp popping sound and a hole appeared in the windshield, cracks spreading around it like a sunburst. Buckthorn heard a second shot hit the front of the car like the blow of a hammer on the bumper.

  “Oh, you did NOT just shoot at a federal agent,” Dushane said, her voice high and nearly breaking with outrage. “Buckthorn, see if you can discourage that shit, would you?” Buckthorn already had his weapon out and was pressing the button to lower his window. He chambered a round and raised up on the seat to lean out. The wind roared in his ears, blew back his hair and made his eyes water. Another shot from the truck struck the car roof at a shallow angle and skipped away. Buckthorn raised his weapon and took aim. Then he hesitated. They were in a neighborhood now, the houses apparently undamaged by the storms. There were people on the sidewalks, staring at the vehicles rushing by. The car rocked and weaved with Dushane’s maneuvering, making the car an unstable platform. Buckthorn clenched his teeth and slid back into the car.

  “Civilians,” Dushane said.

  “Yeah.”

  The people in the truck had no such scruples. Another thump shook the car, this one appearing to come from up front. “If that asshole hit the radiator,” Dushane said, “we’re in trouble.”

  Buckthorn just nodded.

  __________

  Donovan drew back inside the car. “I think I hit the radiator,” he said.

  Lofton muscled the truck around another sharp curve. “Good,” he said.

  Donovan looked out the window at the peaceful streets and well-manicured lawns zipping past. “You got any idea where the hell we are?” he said. “Or where we’re going?”

  Lofton laughed, a little hysterically. “I lost track of where we were after the second or third turn,” he said.

  Donovan looked back. The cop car showed no signs of slowing. He cursed under his breath. “Get us to some open road,” he said. “We’re getting nowhere like FUCK!”

  Lofton had made another turn down another unfamiliar street in the suburban grid. But this street ended abruptly in a fence of orange and white traffic barriers, topped with flashing amber lights. The pavement ended a dozen yards beyond the barrier, next to a large sign, black letters on rough white boards, that identified the large, plowed-up area of gray and brown earth beyond as FUTURE SITE OF ST. MARY OF THE ANGELS CATHOLIC SCHOOL. The road turned to dirt and clay beyond the sign and ended at a massive pile of dirt. Lofton and Donovan both screamed as the truck plowed through the barrier. Lofton stomped the brakes as hard as he could and the truck skidded on the dirt, threatening to go sideways and roll, until he brought it under control and got it going straight again.

  Directly aimed at the mound of earth.

  __________

  Dushane sucked in her breath as she saw the truck plow into the dirt pile like a plane crashing into the side of a mountain. She stepped on the brakes, wrestling against the car’s attempt to skid, then slid to a stop a dozen feet behind the truck. Both she and Buckthorn bailed out of the car at the same time, Dushane drawing her weap
on as her feet hit the ground, Buckthorn’s already aimed. Both took cover behind the open car doors and began shouting at the same time.

  “FEDERAL AGENT! OUT OF THE TRUCK AND GET ON THE GROUND!”

  “POLICE! OUT OF THE VEHICLE! NOW!”

  There was no response at first, then the doors of the truck flew open and two men fell out, one on each side, stumbling and nearly going to their knees before recovering. Both were dressed in coveralls, like construction workers. Each one had a gun in his hand.

  “DROP THE WEAPON!” Buckthorn yelled, his voice a hoarse bellow. He could hear Dushane shouting as well. The one on his side responded by raising his gun and firing, so fast Buckthorn barely had time to register the movement before the window next to him shattered. He flinched and fired back, the report and the vibration traveling up his arm feeling all too familiar. The shot had no effect. The man turned and ran. Buckthorn heard another sharp bang and looked over at Dushane. She had ducked down behind the door. He looked over to where the man on her side was walking towards them, his pistol held out in a sideways grip he’d probably seen in a movie somewhere, firing as he went and shouting. Buckthorn braced his arms atop the car and took aim. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dushane pop back up. The two of them fired simultaneously. Both shots struck the advancing man. The impact stopped him in his tracks and rocked him back. His gun hand flew up in the air, the weapon spinning from his grasp. He fell backwards to the ground with a thump they could hear clearly from where they stood. In the sudden silence that followed, Buckthorn could hear approaching sirens. Dushane and Buckthorn moved cautiously towards the fallen man, weapons still held out in front of them. “Where’s the other one?” Dushane called out.

  Buckthorn looked around. There was no sign of the other man. He’d vanished around the side of the mound of dirt.

  “He’s gone into the construction site,” he said. “Stay here.”