Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield

by J. D. Rhoades

  She was surprised. “When did I say that?”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Boss,” she protested, “I like her fine.”

  “Skip it,” he said curtly.

  She wasn’t going to let it go. “Look, Tony, you know as well as I do what surveillance can be like if one of the partners has a bug up his ass about something. It’s a special kind of hell. If you’re mad at me, let’s have it. If you’re just mad…”

  He sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m worried about her. No reason for me to take it out on you.”

  “You got that right.”

  He looked at her, one corner of his mouth quirking. “You know, you can be a hard person to apologize to.”

  “Oh, I know. But I truly am sorry that you’re hurting.”

  “Thanks.” He raised the binoculars again, peered at the house. “You actually think he’s coming here?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it makes sense.”

  Wolf nodded. “If he really is after the people who killed his sister, this is where he’ll be.”

  “Oh, he’s after them, all right. I saw the look in his eye.”

  “We’ve got another visitor,” Wolf said.

  She felt the approach of the big truck as much as heard it, the rumble of the big, badly tuned diesel engine sending a deep bass vibration ahead of it. She turned around in her seat to look, the relaxed slightly. “Dump truck,” she said as it rolled into view.

  “I didn’t see any construction around.”

  She raised her binoculars to her eyes and peered through the back windshield. The man in the driver’s seat was wearing dark glasses and a ball cap. As the view came into better focus, she could read the lettering. “Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Buckthorn.”

  “In a dump truck? What the hell is he…” Wolf looked at the iron gate. “Oh, no.”

  Dushane lowered the binoculars. “Oh, yes.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “He is.”

  “We need to stop him,” Wolf said.

  “Any ideas?”

  He started the car. “Get in his way?”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t.”

  “You seriously believe he’ll run over us?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure I want to find out.”

  “Shit. It’s too late anyway.” Buckthorn had pulled even with them. He looked down and saw Wolf in the driver’s seat. He didn’t change expression. After a moment, he waved.

  “BUCKTHORN!” Wolf shouted. “TIM!” he started to roll the window down. Buckthorn had turned around and was backing the truck up, into the dirt road in front of them. When he was done, the front of the truck was pointed directly at the iron gate across the street. The rumble went up and up in pitch as Buckthorn revved the engine higher and higher until it had turned into an all-consuming roar like some raging prehistoric beast.

  Wolf and Dushane piled out of the car and started to run towards the dump truck, shouting and waving. Buckthorn didn’t look at them as he popped the clutch. The tires kicked up a choking cloud of thick, gritty black dust as the wheels spun, then bit deep into the soil. The truck leaped forward, headed straight towards the gate.

  __________

  Buckthorn felt the impact through the soles of his boots as well as his hands on the wheel and gearshift as the truck smashed into the iron gate. It held for a split second, then the barrier gave way at the latch and burst open with a scream of rending metal. The left half of the gate was torn from the hinges and flew off to one side, while the right swung hard to the limit of its traverse, then bounced back, slamming against the right side door. The mirror shattered, spraying tiny slivers of glass through the hole where he’d taken the cardboard off the window. The metal frame of the mirror caught for a moment on the gate, then ripped off.

  Pushing through the resistance of the gate had slowed the truck’s forward motion, so Buckthorn shifted down, the engine coughing and belching smoke, the transmission whining as he began a ponderous climb up the slope towards the house. He saw the front door open and a pair of men ran out, assault weapons at the ready. He reached over with his left hand and picked the shotgun up off the seat beside him. He hung it out the window, pointed at the running men, and fired one-handed. The recoil felt like it nearly broke his wrist, and he almost lost his grip on the shotgun. The shot went wild, as he knew it probably would, but it had the desired effect. The two men scattered in opposite directions. He saw another figure disappear from the open door. He pulled the shotgun back in, laid it on the seat, and shifted again. He’d reached the front of the mansion, but instead of turning towards it, he spun the wheel and turned away, towards the trees. He took the truck out of gear and stopped, the air brakes hissing. He could hear the sound of shouting, then a gunshot. A loud bang came from the side of the truck, just behind the cab. Buckthorn reached down, with his right hand this time, and picked up his pistol from where it lay alongside the shotgun. An angry, yelling face appeared in the window. One of Monroe’s braver goons had leaped up on the running board, pointing an ugly black semi-automatic pistol at him. Buckthorn didn’t fire; he transferred his own gun from his right hand to his left, then backhanded the man across the face with the long barrel. A bright red gash spurted blood across his sleeve as the man screamed and fell away from the truck. Buckthorn laid the pistol in his lap and grabbed the wheel. He completed the three-point turn, looked in the remaining mirror to confirm he was lined up with the dump bed centered on the front door, then jockeyed the gearshift into reverse. A loud piercing beep began to sound. The engine roared, the transmission whined, and the tires spun for a moment on the driveway before they again found traction. The truck gave a convulsive leap backwards, then picked up speed, headed for the double front doors, the backup alarm blaring.

  __________

  “What the fuck?” Lamp Monroe said as he sat bolt upright. He’d been lying on the bed with Patience. They were both fully clothed, but he’d been dozing with his head pillowed between her breasts. Recent events had made him more frisky; she’d had to gently move a roaming hand away as he’d pawed at her before drifting off. She didn’t know what he was going to do if he got more demanding.

  There was the sound of shouting and of running feet outside the bedroom door. She heard a single hard, firm knock, then Donovan burst in. He had a pistol in one hand. His brow furrowed as he took in their position on the bed, then turned to Monroe.

  “It’s the front gate,” he said. “Some crazy bastard just drove a dump truck through the front gate.”

  “A dump truck?” Patience said.

  They heard more yelling, then a faraway series of gunshots.

  “It’s got to be Buckthorn,” Donovan said.

  “No shit,” Monroe sneered. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Donovan racked the slide on the weapon. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  The floor under their feet trembled as the whole house shook, as if in the grip of an earthquake. Another shock ran through the place, harder than the first.

  “Oh, my God,” Patience said.

  There was an immense crack, then a long low rumble that shivered through the floor again. A fissure appeared above the lintel of the doorway, then ran upwards to the ceiling. They could hear an insistent, rhythmic beep through the closed door.

  “Mebbe we ought to start worryin’,” Monroe said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “Well, there’s something you don’t see every day,” Wolf said. They were outside the ruined gate, watching as the big truck smashed backwards through the front door and the surrounding doorway. The front of the building crumbled before the onslaught, bricks and mortar tumbling down like an avalanche. The sound of the collapse was like thunder, overriding the engine. The truck stopped, then the engine coughed and grumbled like a giant clearing his throat. There was a clash and a horrible metallic
rasp of gears. The truck began to move forward, the backup alarm falling silent. The air brakes hissed, the brake drums squealed, and the truck came to a stop with the dump bed half in and half out of the building.

  “Looks like probable cause to me, Agent Wolf,” Dushane said, her mouth set in a grim line. She drew her weapon and racked the slide.

  He did the same. “I agree, Agent Dushane. With exigent circumstances, even.”

  They started up the driveway at a jog, weapons at the ready. They heard another alarm, then the high pitched grind and whine of hydraulics. As they drew closer, they saw that the entire middle section of the front wall had collapsed, rubble spilling out of the huge hole. There was a loud metallic clatter from inside. They saw the dump bed begin to rise.

  “Oh, fuck,” Dushane whispered.

  A loud hissing sound filled the air, followed by a deep rumble. Clouds of gray dust billowed from the hole on either side of the truck. A long-haired, bearded man in a leather jacket stumbled out of the cloud, next to the driver’s side door. He stood up, weaving slightly, as if drunk or stunned. He was holding an assault rifle down by his side.

  “FEDERAL AGENT! DROP THE WEAPON!” Dushane yelled. The man looked at them as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He shook his head as if to clear it, then looked up at the cab of the truck. He scowled, then stepped closer to the truck, raising the assault rifle. Dushane and Wolf stopped simultaneously and took aim, each one dropping into a perfectly synchronized combat crouch. Before they could fire, however, the truck door flew open, slamming into the end of the rifle barrel. The man stumbled back, fumbling with the weapon. Buckthorn leaped from the truck, holding a shotgun pointed straight at the man’s face. The man tried to bring his weapon to bear again, but Buckthorn spoke a single word that they could hear from where they stood: “Don’t.” There was the promise of a world of hurt contained in that one word. The man froze.

  “DROP THE WEAPON!” Dushane yelled again. It wasn’t clear which of the two men she was shouting at, but only the bearded man dropped his rifle. Buckthorn stepped on it with one booted foot and gestured with the barrel of the shotgun. “Over there,” they heard him say. The man started to rise, but Buckthorn placed the barrel of the shotgun against his leather-clad back. “No,” he said. “Crawl.” The man rose to all fours and began scuttling towards Wolf and Dushane like a bug.

  “YOU TOO, TIM!” Dushane shouted.

  “Come on, man,” Wolf urged in a more normal voice. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Little late for that, Tony,” Buckthorn said. He bent down to pick up the assault rifle. Wolf heard Dushane suck in her breath, then mutter something under her breath. He couldn’t make out what she said clearly, but it sounded like “please, no.” He realized he was holding his own breath, waiting for the shot. It didn’t come. The bearded rifleman had reached them. He looked up at them, for all the world like a whipped dog. They took their eyes off Buckthorn for a moment to look at him, and in that moment, Buckthorn had slung the shotgun on his back and headed into the house through the ruined front, crouched over, holding the assault rifle in front of him.

  “I’m going after him,” Wolf said. “Secure the prisoner…”

  “No,” Dushane said flatly. “You take this lowlife. I’m going after Tim.”

  “Agent Dushane, I’m giving you a direct order.”

  “And I’m disobeying it, Agent Wolf,” she said. “You can bring me up in front of OPR if you can stand the wait in line. But I’m still the person he’s most likely to listen to.” They could hear the faraway wail of approaching sirens. She gestured with her pistol in the direction of the sound. “And unlike those guys, I probably won’t shoot him by mistake.”

  “By mistake,” he repeated, emphasizing the last word.

  “Yeah.” She started towards the house. “Follow me when you get this lamebrain squared away, okay?”

  “Wait,” Wolf said. He looked down at the man cowering in the grass. “Maybe he can give us some intel.”

  She didn’t stop. “If he does, let me know. But there’s no time.” A flurry of shots sounded from inside. She broke into a run.

  “All right, asshole,” Wolf said to his prisoner. “On your feet. And start talking.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The half-ton of pea-sized gravel that he’d dumped in the front hall of the big mansion had overflowed out the hole he’d punched in the front wall, forming a short slope. Buckthorn climbed it easily, holding the rifle at his shoulder, looking at the world through the front sights. He’d trained with a similar weapon when he’d taken selected members of his department through a grueling week of tactical training at the Justice Academy in Salemburg. It all seemed like a long time ago, almost another lifetime, but he was relieved to feel it all coming back to him. Even if I’ll never be a law enforcement officer again, he thought. That sent a pang through his chest, but he shoved the regret aside. There was work to be done. He reached the top of the tiny hillock he’d created and entered.

  The gravel had smashed into the front hall like a wave, crushing everything before it. The hall ran a good distance on either side of the front door, ending in large glassed-in French doors on either side. The doors led to what looked like a parlor of some kind to his left one side and a dining room on the right. Both rooms appeared to be unused, most of the furniture covered with white sheets. The place looked deserted. The ceiling of the hall ran up to the second floor, with a long railed gallery overlooking the entranceway. Stairways on either side led up to the gallery.

  Buckthorn heard a low moan. He swiveled the rifle towards the sound.

  A man lay against the wall, half buried in the gravel that had piled up against it. He was only semiconscious, his head lolled back against the wall. He had grimy olive skin and stringy black hair combed inexpertly over his considerable bald spot. Buckthorn could see the splintered remains of what looked like an antique chair sticking up around him. He stepped over. “Hey,” he said. He nudged the man in the chest with his boot. “Hey. Wake up.”

  The man’s eyes opened blearily. “Who…” he rasped.

  “Where’s Sean Donovan?” Buckthorn demanded. “And Lampton Monroe?”

  The man seemed to be recovering some of his faculties. “Fuck you,” he said, his voice still hoarse and fuzzy. He flailed around on top of the gravel with his hands, obviously searching for something.

  Buckthorn raised the rifle. “You looking for a weapon under there?”

  The man looked up, his eyes widening. “No,” he said in a small voice.

  “Son,” Buckthorn said, “you are the worst damn liar I have ever seen. And that is saying something.” He raised the rifle. “I don’t think I should leave you behind me.”

  The man threw up his hands in front of this face. “Please,” he whined. “Please don’t kill me.”

  Buckthorn hesitated, then sighed. He lowered the rifle. He caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up. Another man, in jeans and a leather vest and sporting a Mohawk, was aiming down at him from the gallery above. Buckthorn brought his own weapon up and fired, just as the man let off a three-round burst. The sound of the shots was deafening in the enclosed space. The screaming of the half-buried man added to the din. Mohawk’s shots thudded into the gravel at Buckthorn’s feet, just as one of Buckthorn’s shots struck the gunman under the chin. The bullet passed upwards through his skull, exiting out the back of his head in a spray of blood, skull fragments, and gray matter. He fell over backwards and lay still. Buckthorn swept the gallery from one end to the other with his rifle sight, looking for more guards. He saw none. He swiveled the rifle back down to bear on the half-buried man, who squealed and thrashed frantically, trying to get up. The action apparently caused him great pain. His panicked cry turned into a howl of agony that trailed off to sobbing. “I think I got a broke leg,” he whimpered.

  “I’ll get you some help,” Buckthorn said, “If you tell me what I want to know.” From outside, he hea
rd the approaching sirens. Help was on the way anyway, but not for him. “Where’s Lampton Monroe?”

  “Upstairs,” the man said. “To the left.”

  “Then?”

  “Take the left-hand hallway. All the way. The bedroom at the end. That’s Monroe’s room.”

  “What about Donovan?”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I swear. I think he and the redhead have a room, but I don’t know which one. Please, man, get me a doctor. I feel…I think I might be bleeding.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Buckthorn said, “but I got something to do first.”

  “What might that be, Captain Buckthorn?” a voice said behind him. He whirled, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Leila Dushane stood there, by the back bumper of the dump truck that projected so surreally into the genteel living space of the front hall. She had her gun hand down by her side.

  “Leila,” he said.

  “Hey,” she said. “You didn’t return my calls.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Been a little busy.”

  “So I can see.” She gestured at the truck next to her. “I’ve got to give you points for style, at least.”

  “Shock and awe, you know?”

  “I know,” she said. “I’d actually congratulate you for creative thinking if I didn’t have to arrest you for it.”

  “You can do that later,” he said.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Can’t wait.” She reached into the pocket of her suit pants and pulled out the zip cuffs. “You’re going to need to put the gun…” she stopped in mid-sentence and raised her own weapon. “GUN!” she shouted. Buckthorn’s finger tightened instinctively on the trigger, and he came within a hairs-breadth of shooting Leila down. But when she fired it was up and over him. He turned to see another man with an assault rifle duck back into a doorway along the gallery, Leila’s shots turning the wood of the jamb to splinters.