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Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield

Page 13

by J. D. Rhoades


  She knelt by the man on the ground, felt for a pulse in his neck. “You’re not going in without backup.”

  “Then come on.” He started sprinting towards the site. “Wait,” Dushane said as she stood up. The sirens were almost upon them. “We should…” she was interrupted as a white patrol car with red stripes roared down the street towards them, siren howling. The officer behind the wheel spotted them and stood on the brakes. The patrol car slid on the pavement, then hit the soft sand and skidded to a stop, throwing up a spray of dirt and mud, halting just inches from their rear bumper. An officer leaped from the car, gun drawn. “DROP YOUR WEAPONS!” he yelled. “GET ON THE GROUND!”

  “I’m a cop!” Buckthorn called back.

  “FBI!” Dushane yelled. The officer didn’t seem to hear them over his own voice, which had climbed almost to the point of breaking.

  “There’s s suspect getting away, asshole!” Dushane yelled. Another red and white pulled up, adding the screaming of its siren to the chaos. Another officer jumped out, his own weapon drawn, shouting as well.

  “Oh, for God’s SAKE!” Dushane said. She knelt and laid her weapon on the ground, then went prone in the dirt, hands behind her head. Buckthorn clenched his teeth and did the same, a couple of feet away. The two local officers charged forward, guns at the ready. One stopped a few feet away, holding his gun on them, while the other holstered his and produced a pair of zip cuffs. “Hands behind you,” he barked as he walked to where Buckthorn was lying.

  “Son,” Buckthorn said through clenched teeth, “does this uniform I’m wearing look familiar? At all?”

  The officer slowed, stopped. “Wait. You’re a law enforcement officer?”

  “No, genius,” Dushane snarled. “He’s the goddamn UPS man.”

  “You need to be quiet, ma’am,” the officer said, but some of the steel had left his voice. His face was beginning to show doubt.

  “Yeah,” Buckthorn said. “I’m a sheriff’s deputy.”

  The officer looked stricken. “Jason,” he called back. “This guy’s a deputy sheriff.”

  “Not from around here,” the other one called back.

  “No,” Buckthorn said. “Not from around here. I’m from North Carolina. And this lady here’s an FBI agent I’m helping on a case. You mind if I sit up?”

  The other officer had come up to join the first one. “Oh. Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah,” the first one said. “Sorry, um…”

  “Buckthorn,” he said as he sat up. “Lieutenant Tim Buckthorn. Gibson County, North Carolina.” He began brushing the dirt off. “This is Special Agent Leila Dushane, FBI.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” she said sourly, sitting up and brushing off her own dark pantsuit. “Goddammit,” she muttered. “This thing is ruined.” Buckthorn noticed a look of disapproval cross the first officer’s face at the language. “Mind if we see some I.D., ma’am?”

  She sighed and reached into her jacket pocket.

  “You’ve got an armed subject back behind us in that construction site,” Buckthorn said. “He’s wanted in a kidnapping case. And you can add ADW on a law enforcement officer and a federal agent while you’re at it.”

  The two officers looked at each other. “You two can stand up now,” the first one said.

  They got to their feet. “You going to call that in?” Buckthorn said. He looked at the first officer’s nametag. “Officer DeSalvo?”

  “Yeah,” DeSalvo said. He headed over to his car at a trot. Buckthorn shook his head.

  “Asshole’s probably halfway to Kentucky by now,” Dushane said.

  “Who’s the guy we just…” Buckthorn said. He stopped as the enormity of the unspoken word brought home to him what he’d just done. Again. He felt a twisting in his gut, and a feeling like a huge weight suddenly pressing down on his shoulders.

  “Defended ourselves against?” Dushane said. She reached up and ran a hand through her hair to brush the dirt out. He could see her clearly, as if she’d come into sharper focus. He saw that her hand was trembling. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Fine. You?”

  “A little shook,” he said.

  “Shaken,” she said absently.

  “What?”

  “Shaken. Not shook.”

  The absurdity of it made him laugh. She looked over at him, scowling, and then she laughed, too. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “We need to get back,” she said. “See if the girl’s all right.”

  “Yeah,” he said. They started walking back towards the car.

  “Hey,” the second officer said, “You guys need to stay here.”

  “No we don’t,” the two of them said in unison, and that started them laughing again. There was an edge to the laughter, something right on the brink of hysteria.

  DeSalvo hurried up. “We need you to give a statement,” he said. He reached out as if to restrain Buckthorn. He stopped at the look on Buckthorn’s face, his hand raised in the air as if frozen.

  “Son,” Buckthorn said as gently as he could, “we are still in the middle of a federal investigation in which a young girl’s life is at stake. We just located her—we think—but she needs rescuing and medical help. We’ll be glad to come in when it’s done and give you all the statements you need. But if you try to interfere with said investigation, this young lady will place you in federal custody, which is not somewhere you want to be. And, son, I don’t want to be rude, but I have already had a hard day. I am far from home, I’ve been shot at—twice— and I have gone without my lunch, which always makes me irritable. What this is leading up to is that if you put that hand on me, I’ll break it off and put it in my pocket. So. We clear?”

  DeSalvo’s hand dropped to his side. “Yes sir,” he said.

  “Good.” They got in the car. Dushane started it up. “Not bad, cowboy.”

  He suddenly felt very tired. “Thanks.”

  “When this is over,” she said as she pulled off, “I am going to buy you a drink. Maybe several.”

  “As long as you don’t try and correct my grammar.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  The followed the trail of steadily worsening damage back to the site. They saw the flashing red and blue lights of the emergency and police vehicles from two blocks away. When they pulled up, the long driveway was clogged with a collection of fire trucks, patrol cars, and an ambulance. People in a variety of uniforms milled about, faces set with grim purpose. As they got out of the car, they could hear the high grating whine of a chain saw. People were gathered around the spot where they’d heard the tapping. A trio of people dressed in orange coveralls with the six-armed blue star of EMS workers stood by a white-sheeted gurney resting on the ground. Tony Wolf stood a few feet away, watching. The only sign of nervousness he showed was the constant jiggling of his right leg. He spotted them approaching and raised a hand in greeting.

  “What’s the word?” Buckthorn shouted over the noise of the saw.

  “They’re cutting through,” Wolf replied. “We haven’t heard anything from down there since you left.” He looked Dushane and Buckthorn up and down, noting the dirt and mud on the front of their clothing. “What the hell happened to you two?”

  “We had a little trouble,” Dushane said. “We…” her voice broke.

  Wolf’s brow furrowed with concern. He motioned for them to follow him. They walked away from the site, far enough from the noise to be able to converse without shouting. “You okay, L.D.?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, but her voice was hoarse.

  “What happened?” Wolf asked Buckthorn.

  “The truck crashed. The driver and the passenger drew on us.”

  Wolf rubbed a hand across his face. “How bad?”

  “One dead. The other got away when the locals pulled up and mistook us for the subjects.”

  Wolf grimaced. “Shit. Who did the shooting?”

  “Both of us.”

  “L.D., tell me the truth. How are you?”
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  She cleared her throat. Her voice was steadier when she spoke. “Holding it together, boss. For now.”

  Wolf nodded. “Glad you’re honest about the ‘for now’. We’ll talk later about what you need to do to get past this. Right now,” he nodded over their shoulders, “things are about to get ugly.”

  Buckthorn looked back. Watson and Braswell were striding across the lot towards them. Watson’s face was stormy. Braswell had a smug little smile on his.

  “Special Agent Anthony Wolf,” Watson said. “Special Agent Leila Dushane. Timothy Buckthorn. The three of you are under arrest for theft of government property and for interference with a federal investigation. You have the right to remain silent…” Braswell was taking a set of plastic zip cuffs out of his pocket, his smile getting broader as he did it. Dushane started to speak, but Wolf held up his hand and she fell silent. He listened patiently while Watson read off the Miranda warnings. “Now turn around,” Watson ordered.

  “Sure,” Wolf said. “As soon as we get done here.”

  Braswell’s face went blank with surprise. Watson’s scowl deepened. “What did you just say to me?”

  Wolf gestured at the knot of workers. The saw had stopped and they were prying at the boards with a long crowbar. “I said, as soon as we find out if the girl’s okay, we’ll come with you.”

  Braswell had recovered from the shock and his scowl now matched Watson’s. “You’ll come us now, you son of a bitch,” he said in a low, savage, voice. Or I’ll…”

  “You’ll do what, Fireball?” Dushane snapped. “Shoot us? Granted, this might be the only range you wouldn’t miss at, but you really think you’re going to pull the trigger on a couple of fellow agents and a uniformed cop, out here in broad daylight, in the middle of a crime scene?”

  Watson stared at Wolf in frustration, his jaw working in fury. There was a shout from the rubble pile. “EMS, over here!” The EMS workers were moving towards the group standing around a newly-made hole in the wood flooring. Buckthorn started walking towards them. “Hey,” Braswell said. Buckthorn ignored him. His concentration was fixed on the scene in front of him. He vaguely heard Dushane say, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Fireball.” He reached the hole with no one interfering with him. “Excuse me,” he said. One of the rescue workers, a slender blonde woman with her hair cut short, looked at him, annoyed, but moved aside when she saw the sheriff’s uniform. Then she did a quick double take. “You’re not with the county,” she said.

  “No,” Buckthorn said. He knelt at the edge of the hole and looked down.

  The girl was there, about five feet down, surrounded by a jumble of debris. Workers were hauling out every board, chunk of concrete and piece of drywall they could reach, starting at the top, leaving the girl looking as if she was at the bottom of a cone of construction trash. She was slumped on a sturdy-looking wooden chair, her head lolling to one side. One leg was cuffed to a thick metal chain that disappeared into the mess around her. Beneath the matted and tangled raven hair, her face looked as pale and bloodless as if she was carved from bone. There were scrapes and scratches on her face that made her look as if she’d an unpleasant encounter with a large and angry animal. She was covered with dirt and concrete dust, but she was unquestionably the girl from the picture Maddie Underhill had found, what seemed like ages ago. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing. He felt his own breath stop, his heart pounding in his chest. She couldn’t be dead. Not after all this. Not after they’d gotten this close.

  “Callie?” he called down to her. “Callie? C’mon, girl, wake up. You’re almost home.” There was no response. His voice rose. “Callie? Wake up. Come on, your Mama’s worried about you. You need to wake up. Please.” He heard his voice crack on the last word, felt the hot tears stinging his eyes. He wiped them away. “Callie,” he whispered.

  “Sir,” a voice said, “you need to move aside.” He felt a hand on his shoulder, brushed it away savagely.

  “Come on, Tim,” Dushane said. She was kneeling beside him. She put her arm around his shoulder. “Let these people work.”

  He looked up. Two of the EMS workers were setting the gurney down. Another, a tiny woman with short red hair and freckles, was standing behind Buckthorn, stethoscope around her neck. She looked like a teenager, but the determined expression on her face showed she wasn’t someone to underestimate. Buckthorn stood up and stepped aside. The woman sat at the edge of the hole, her legs dangling over, then gently levered herself down onto the scrambled pile of wreckage. A board moved as she put her foot on it.

  “Careful,” someone said. “It’s still unstable.”

  “I know,” the woman replied through clenched teeth. She leaned down, picked up the board, and held it up. Buckthorn leaned over, took it, and tossed it behind him. The woman repeated the process, with the people around the hole taking the pieces she handed up, until she had widened and deepened the cleared area. Buckthorn saw Watson and Braswell taking chunks of debris and carrying them out of the way. Finally, the woman was able to slide down beside the girl in the chair, so close they were touching. She placed two fingers on the girl’s neck, then stuck the stethoscope in her ears and bent down to listen. Buckthorn held his breath again.

  “There’s a pulse,” the woman called up. “But it’s weak. Somebody hand me down the bolt cutters. And get the lift set up.” The group burst into a flurry of activity. A firefighter handed the EMS worker down a pair of long-handled metal cutters. A trio of other firefighters had already begun constructing a complex-looking tripod which they moved over the hole after attaching a heavy pulley system from which descended a yellow web harness. In minutes, the girl was ascending out of the hole, hanging limp in the harness. The EMS worker climbed out of the hole after her colleagues had taken the girl, detached her, and laid her on the gurney.

  “Tell me,” Buckthorn asked, “is she going to be all right?”

  “You the father?” the woman said, cocking her head quizzically, taking in his soiled and wrinkled uniform.

  “No,” he said. “She’s…” he hesitated, realizing that she wouldn’t tell a stranger anything. “My little sister,” he said.

  Dushane was standing a few feet away. “Wait, what?”

  The EMS worker didn’t seem to notice. “She’s got some nasty scrapes and bruises, and some lacerations, but doesn’t look like there’s any life-threatening blood loss. She’s severely dehydrated and in shock, but there’s no sign of spinal damage. At least not now. We’re taking her to the trauma center at Erlanger, to be on the safe side. But I think she’s in good shape, considering. You want to ride the ambulance with us?”

  Buckthorn looked over to where Watson and Braswell were fastening Wolf’s hands behind him with the zip cuffs. “No,” he said. “Thanks. I’ll meet up with her there later.” Maybe much later, he thought as he began walking over to them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Patience saw the look of shock cross Lamp Monroe’s face and saw the cell phone slip from his grasp as he began to fall forwards. She rushed to him, reaching him just in time to keep him from slipping out of the chair and sliding to the floor. His shoulders were shaking, and his breath came in gasps. “What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?” The gasps turned to convulsive coughing that shivered the old man’s body as if he were in the throes of a seizure. She grabbed the oxygen tank by the bed and pressed the mask to his nose. He struggled against her, but he was too weak to break her grip. In a moment, he quieted. He slumped back into the chair, semiconscious, his eyes half closed. She studied him for a moment to make sure the immediate crisis had passed, then picked the phone up from off the floor. “Sean?”

  “Jesus,” Donovan said, “did the old fucker die?”

  “He’s resting. But something gave him a hell of a shock. What the hell happened?”

  “Lofton’s dead. Cops shot him.”

  “Oh, my God. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Some locals showed up and the stupid bastards got in each o
ther’s way. I got out clean.”

  “That’s good,” she said. Her mind was racing ahead. This was opportunity, if she could figure out how to use it.

  He went on. “But I think the cops have found the girl. The ones who shot at us were at the site when we got back.”

  She started to speak, but Lampton was awake and pulling at her arm to get at the cell phone. “Be safe,” she said as she handed the phone back to him. Lampton pulled the mask away. The face beneath it was contorted with rage. “Get back here,” he croaked into the phone. “Now.” There was a pause. “I’ll deal with that. Just get your ass back here. I don’t care how.” He broke the connection and slumped back in the chair, his eyes closed, breathing heavily.

  “I’m sorry about your grandson,” she said.

  “He din’t have sense enough to pour piss out of a boot if you printed the instructions on the heel.” The words were harsh, but his voice lacked its usual force. It was as if he was reciting the words by rote. I’ll be damned, she thought. The old man cared about his grandson after all. Wish I’d known that earlier.

  Monroe opened his eyes. Patience had to restrain herself from taking a step back at the vehement rage smoldering in them. “He was a damn fool,” he said, “but he was family. You don’t kill my family without payin’ for it.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “That ain’t none o’your business, gal,” he said. He picked up the phone and started to press buttons. “Now leave me be for a bit. I got some calls to make.”

  “Yes, sir,” she murmured. She kept her eyes down as she left the bedroom, closing the door behind her. When she heard the click of the closing door, she put her ear to it. She could hear clearly; the old man’s voice was stronger than she’d heard it in months.

  “It’s time,” he was saying. Then: “Good. You ain’t gonna hear from me for a while. But you’ll be took care of.” Then there was silence.

  She stood up. With Lofton dead, there was no heir apparent to Monroe’s business except Donovan. And she had Donovan under control. For the moment. She considered going back into the bedroom and holding a pillow over the old man’s face until he stopped struggling. Or diluting or even poisoning his medications. He wouldn’t last long without them. She’d greet Donovan as the new king when he returned. He’d be grateful. He’d make her the queen. But then what? She thought. He’d know what she’d done to put him on top, and that knowledge would give him power over her. He’d own her. She had no desire to be owned. Not ever again. But if the positions were reversed…and with that a plan began to form in her mind. She put her ear back to the door. At first, all she heard was more silence. Then she heard the sound of weeping. She thought for a moment, then walked back down the hall to her own room and picked up her own cell phone. She dialed a number she knew by heart. A bright, cheerful voice answered. “Law Offices of Suddreth and Blanco.”

 

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