by Hunt, James
“You’re probably right about that, Senator,” Grant said. “But he hasn’t seen my worst either.”
8
It didn’t take long for Hickem to verify the airfield’s existence, as well as the name Pierfoy had given. Owen Callahan was a Washington resident whose father worked at a sawmill that had mysteriously burned down, taking the lives of nearly every man that worked inside, including Callahan’s father.
The story matched what the old man had told Grant during his captivity, and it was enough to confirm Pierfoy’s admission as true. They had the bastard’s name along with a photo, albeit a much younger version. Owen couldn’t hide anymore. The old man was exposed.
Hickem kept the team to engage Owen at the airfield small, only expanding his core unit by another four, and only by men who Hickem trusted with his life. With Grant and Mocks in the mix, it brought their total offensive numbers to twelve. If they counted Pierfoy’s security detail, then that number jumped to fifteen.
The meeting was scheduled only two hours after Pierfoy’s call, and they arrived at the airfield early to wire the senator so they could listen to his conversation. Once Callahan and his men were exposed, Pierfoy’s code phrase was “take care of my family.” After that, it was all up to Hickem’s men.
The airfield was bare bones. Nothing but a strip of grass in the middle of a forest. But the surrounding trees provided good cover. Hickem even had a drone sweep the area to make sure Callahan didn’t have any men hiding in the woods for an ambush. The sweep came back clean, and all that was left to do was wait.
Both Grant and Mocks were given assault rifles for the mission, though Mocks looked uncomfortable as she handled the weapon. Grant almost told her to just use her side arm, but after Hickem made the comment of getting Mocks a BB gun, he thought better of it. The only way she was going to give up the rifle after that comment was with her cold, dead hands.
Hickem was kind enough to offer them Kevlar for the mission, and made sure to emphasize the need to have them returned in the same manner in which they were given; without any bullets lodged inside them.
Grant peered through the binoculars, finding Pierfoy’s plane parked off the runway near an old hangar. The staircase was down, and he heard the old Senator breathing nervously through the microphone. He lowered the binoculars and jabbed Mocks in the shoulder.
“You all right?” Grant asked.
“I’m fine,” Mocks answered, her voice short and irritated.
Grant hadn’t brought it up before, and he was hesitant to do it now, but thought it a good idea. “It’s better if we take him alive.”
Mocks looked at Grant. “And you think I won’t?”
“You almost lost your husband,” Grant replied. “That’s not something that’s forgiven quickly.”
“There could be a lot of gunfire,” Mocks said, looking through the sight of the rifle. “No telling what could happen once the bullets start flying.”
Before Grant had a chance to reply, the thump of helicopter blades sounded overhead. Three choppers descended on the airfield, close to Pierfoy’s plane, blocking the Senator on the strip.
“Heads up, everyone,” Hickem said. “We take out the choppers first, and then move in. Team three, you have lead position.”
“Copy that.”
Hickem had split up their forces, putting the majority closer to Pierfoy’s plane in hopes that Callahan would try and box Pierfoy in, and it worked perfectly. With the other teams in place closer to the combat zone, Hickem, Mocks, and Grant were onsite only as backup.
Pierfoy exited the plane, escorted by his security detail, and Callahan showed himself once Pierfoy was on the grass. Grant lifted his binoculars to watch the exchange. Callahan brought eight men, and Grant saw a few bodies with bags over their heads on the center chopper. It was Pierfoy’s family.
“Well,” Callahan said, his voice catching on Pierfoy’s hidden mic. “There they are.” He gestured to the center chopper. “I bid you good luck on your trip to D.C.”
“I want to see their faces,” Pierfoy said. “I want to talk with my granddaughter. After that, I’ll be on my way.”
Callahan lingered but finally acceded to the request. The bodies were pulled from the chopper and their masks taken off. Pierfoy rushed to the young girl and the pair cried together.
“Are you all right?” Pierfoy asked. “Are you hurt?”
“I want to go home,” the little girl said. “Grandpa, please!”
Callahan’s men ripped the girl from Pierfoy’s arms and she screamed, dragging her and the parents back to the chopper. The senator remained on his knees as Callahan walked over.
“So, I held up my end of the bargain,” Callahan said. “Now it’s your turn.”
Grant shifted his gaze toward the Secret Service behind the senator. None of them had their weapons out, which irked him, especially with Callahan’s men so openly armed. It went against their training to be in such a vulnerable position. Something was wrong.
Pierfoy lifted his head, his eyes red, sniffling and wiping his nose with his jacket sleeve. “All right.”
Hickem wiggled on his stomach. “Stand by.”
Pierfoy turned his head toward Grant and his muscles tensed. Through the binoculars, it was like the senator was looking directly at him. Grant waited for Pierfoy to give the go-code. But that’s not what happened.
“There are twelve of them,” Pierfoy said. “Sixty yards toward the western tree line, and then to the north twenty yards nestled in the woods. They’re heavily armed, and there is a drone in the area.”
“Shit!” Hickem said, pushing himself off his stomach and sprinting along the tree line. “You two stay back!”
Gunfire immediately descended upon Hickem’s men, and Grant pivoted the binoculars to the battle on the tree line. A rustle stole his attention to his right, and when he looked up from the binoculars, Mocks had sprinted off, heading straight for Callahan.
“Mocks!” Grant jumped up, following her, and raised his rifle.
Exposed and in the open, the only advantage the pair had was the distance between them and The Web. Grant caught up to Mocks and yanked her arm back.
“We need to circle around,” Grant said, pulling her from her set path. “Hickem will want to try and box them in! C’mon!”
The chopper blades whirred as one of Callahan’s aircraft lifted off, and Mocks followed Grant’s lead. The pair fired intermittent blasts on their run, Grant’s vision shifting between Pierfoy and Callahan.
The world narrowed through the scope of Grant’s rifle, and he concentrated his fire on the airborne chopper. His shots missed wide left, then right, but he connected with the windshield just before the aircraft ascended out of reach. It did little to stop the pilot’s advancement. And as the chopper turned, Grant got a good look at the fifty-caliber gun on its deck.
Grant lowered the rifle and focused on the sprint to the hangar. “Get to cover!” He sprinted around Mocks, pulling on her shoulder. He glanced over to the plane and choppers still on the ground.
The senator had disappeared back into the safety of his plane, but he caught a brief glimpse of Callahan as he took shelter inside one of the helicopters.
The chopper with the mounted gun turned to Hickem’s men on the north side of the airfield. Gunfire thundered into the forest, tearing apart trees, kicking up dirt, and laying waste to anything in its path.
Screams pierced the radio as Hickem’s men maneuvered to evade the gunfire. Grant’s legs cramped on the run, and he limped the last few steps to the backside of the hangar, slamming into the rusted metal siding.
Mocks sidled up beside him, her eyes toward the chopper. Toward Callahan. “He hasn’t taken off yet.” Her voice was breathless. “We can still take him.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Grant said. “The best move for us is to stay alive. That’s why he wanted to lure us here. To wipe us out so we couldn’t talk.”
Mocks stepped around Grant and reached for the hangar�
��s back door. Grant pressed his hand against the door and leaned his weight against it to block her.
“Don’t,” Grant said. “It’s not worth it.”
“He cut up my husband. I’m not letting him get away with that.” Mocks knocked away Grant’s hand, then ripped the door open.
“Mocks!”
Gunfire pounded the air beyond the hangar walls, and the radio chatter intensified. She sprinted through the hangar, rifle raised, and Grant followed. She was faster than him, her short legs blurring as they neared the front. Grant heard Hickem give the order to fall back.
“Mocks, stop!” Grant said, but his request fell on deaf ears.
Mocks shoulder-checked the front hangar door open and fired into the pair of helicopters. Grant was ten feet behind and raised his rifle to cover her from a pair of Web members that sprinted from behind a chopper. Grant brought the crosshairs over a chest and stomach and quickly pulled the trigger.
The stairs of Pierfoy’s jet were still attached, and Grant yanked Mocks behind them for cover. He looked up to the sky and reached for a fresh magazine as he ejected the empty.
“If that fifty-caliber sweeps back around, we’re both dead,” Grant said, noticing the blades were still thumping farther down the airfield, chasing Hickem’s men. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
Mocks reached into her pocket and removed a grenade. “I get this between the choppers and it could take both out.”
“No,” Grant said. “They’re too far part.” He gestured to the chopper on the left. “Take out the front one. It’ll force them to funnel.”
The chopper whined as the engines whirred, and Grant craned his head over the stair’s banister. Mocks pulled the pin then stepped out from behind her cover and chucked the grenade.
They both ducked, and screams preceded the heavy rumble of earth from the blast. Grant lifted his head and lunged for Mocks before she could go alone. “Wait!”
“Let go!” Mocks ripped herself from Grant’s hold and sprinted away from the stairs, firing into the second chopper.
Grant followed but struggled from his awkward position on the stairs. It cost him a few seconds, and by the time he tailed Mocks, she was past the smoldering wreckage of the first chopper.
“Mocks!” A Web member circled around the back, closing in on her blind spot at eight o’clock. Grant aimed quickly and connected with a head shot. He looked to the sky, the thump of the third chopper returning to its grounded brothers.
Wind blasted Grant’s face, and he squinted as Mocks drew closer to the chopper ready for takeoff, firing impotently into the windshield. The glass was bulletproof, the bullets bouncing off the surface.
The chopper’s sliding deck door opened and a rifle appeared. Shots were fired, and Mocks was flung backward, dropped to the grass.
“No!” Grant aimed, but before he could squeeze the trigger, the harsh pelt of bullets struck his chest, flattening him on his back. Wind rushed over his body, and he rolled in pain. He lifted his head and saw two men drag Mocks’s body onto the chopper. Grant reached for his side arm and lifted a shaking arm to fire. The door shut as the chopper took off and like the windshield it was bulletproof.
They disappeared behind Grant, but not before the second chopper with the mounted machine gun descended upon him. Grant jumped to his feet, and the heavy thump of gunfire propelled Grant faster toward the hangar.
Bullets nipped at his ankles, tearing through Pierfoy’s jet in the process. Grant leapt through the hangar door, landing on his belly and covering the back of his head as the high caliber bullets tore through the hangar’s old and rusted sheet metal.
The thump of the choppers faded, the gunfire ended, and the world fell silent. Slowly, Grant lifted his head, his stomach and chest sore, and when the adrenaline subsided, he suddenly found it hard to breath. He took quick, shallow breaths, avoiding the pain of a deep inhale that his body desperately wanted to take.
Static crackled in Grant’s ear, and he pressed the receiver on his communication link. “Hickem? Anyone copy?”
Only static answered back. Grant forced himself to sit up and heard movement outside the hangar walls. He limped to the wall next to the hangar door and peered through one of the bullet holes left behind by the fifty caliber.
A pair of Pierfoy’s Secret Service detail stepped out of the fuselage to examine the damage. He reached for his side arm, the rifle still lying out in the grass.
Grant waited until both Secret Service members had their backs turned and then he stepped from cover. “Freeze! Place the hands on the back of your heads, turn around, and walk slowly toward me.”
Both Secret Service members complied. Grant kept his pistol trained on his new hostages, but his eyes flitted up to the open plane door.
“Come out, Pierfoy!” Grant said. “It’s over!”
No answer.
Grant ordered the pair of guards to drop to their knees, and he tossed one of them a zip tie. “Tie his hands behind his back.” Once the serviceman’s partner was restrained, Grant bound the second serviceman. He did the same to their ankles, leaving them on their sides.
After a quick pat down and removing their fire arms, Grant moved to the stairs, his pistol still aimed up at the open door. A breeze cooled the sweat on his forehead as he ascended the stairs. His abdomen spasmed, his body brusied from the bullets, but the Kevlar had done its job. He pressed forward, then paused at the dark entryway to the plane.
“Last chance, Pierfoy!” Grant said. “Callahan is gone.” One bodyguard remained, and the last thing Grant wanted was a shootout with a Secret Service officer.
With still no answer, Grant stepped inside. He sidled up next to a small counter and cabinet before turning into the main aisle that stretched down the plane’s middle. He inched toward the edge, then carefully peered around the side.
It was a narrow glance, but Grant spied a few bodies huddled all the way in the back, tucked behind chairs and seats.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Pierfoy said, shouting from the back. “He had my family. What was I supposed to do?”
“You made your bed a long time ago, Senator. It’s no use backpedaling now.” Grant peered around the edge again, growing bolder and inching farther. He needed the remaining bodyguard’s location. His field of vision widened with each inch and when he spotted the pistol between a pair of seats, it fired.
Grant ducked and crouched lower, bits of wood falling over his head and shoulders with every gunshot. Five more shots, and then they stopped. Grant brushed some of the debris off his face and repositioned himself near the aisle’s edge.
“I’m not going to let you dismantle everything that I’ve built,” Pierfoy said. “The only way you’re getting me off this plane is in a body bag.”
Grant closed his eyes, controlling his breathing. The shooter had limited mobility with the pistol wedged between the seats. If he moved left fast and far enough, then he had a shot.
Grant scooted closer to the edge, ignoring the pained fatigue his body whimpered along with the daunting task of what came next. One step at a time. That’s all he needed to do.
Grant spun around the corner’s edge and the serviceman fired, missing Grant’s shoulder by a hair. Grant aimed toward the source of gunfire and squeezed the trigger. Recoil from the shots jerked Grant’s wrists in three quick strikes, and shrieks pierced as the gunfire rose from the rear of the plane. And then quiet. Just like that.
Grant pressed forward, pistol still aimed at the serviceman who lay lifeless on the floor, his eyes scanning the rest of the plane. Pierfoy’s family held up their hands, the father shielding his wife and daughter.
Pierfoy stood next, and when Grant approached the Secret Service man, he saw a small river of blood roll into the aisle.
“You three, on the back wall,” Grant said, pointing to the family. “Stay on your knees and place your hands on your head. Do not move unless I tell you to.”
The family quickly complied, the mother and daughter s
till crying. When Grant arrived at Pierfoy, the old senator kept his hands at his side. His face drooped, as if defeat had finally sunk its absolute claws into his back.
“So,” Grant said. “Do you want to walk out that door? Or do I need to get you that body bag?”
The senator slowly raised his arms.
9
Grant moved Pierfoy and his family off the plane, leaving the body of the Secret Service agent where he lay. With the investigation that was sure to follow, Grant didn’t want to cause himself any more grief by adding tampering with evidence in addition to the charges accompanied for shooting a federal officer.
With the family off the plane, Grant checked the radio one last time, hoping some of Hickem’s men survived. “Agent Hickem, this is Grant, can you hear me?” He paused, waiting for a response. He checked the communication link, making sure everything was plugged in and turned on. It was. “I say again, this is Detective Grant. Is anyone out there?”
A burst of crackling static, and then garbled nonsense. Grant’s heart leapt at the noise, and he took a half step toward the tree line.
“Grant,” Hickem said. “You still there? Grant?”
“I’m here,” Grant answered. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but my men are injured. I’ve radioed for a medical evac.”
“Where are you now?” Grant asked, pivoting three-sixty, but saw nothing except grass and trees.
“About a mile north of the airfield,” Hickem answered. “I’m staying put with my guys. What’s your situation?”
“I have Pierfoy along with his family and security detail,” Grant answered. “Callahan is gone. He took Mocks.”
Hickem remained silent for a moment. Then, with a steady tone, he replied, “She’ll be all right. She’s too ornery to die.”
The medical unit landed twenty minutes later, and Grant kept an eye on Pierfoy and company while the medics fished Hickem and his men from the forest. Or at least what was left of them.
Six had died. The other three were injured, including Hickem himself, who had a gash on the back of his left calf, which he conveniently forgot to mention until after his men were taken care of. He’d duct-taped the flap of meat back to the rest of him. The piece of muscle was at least the size of a steak.
