by Hunt, James
Smoke flooded through the windows, blacking out the sky above, and bits of what remained of the roof were already crumbling away.
Disoriented, Grant stood, then stumbled in a half circle, but stopped abruptly when he saw Callahan and his henchmen standing on the edge of the clearing near the trees.
The old man was smiling, and his pair of bodyguards kept their rifles aimed casually at the structure. His presence was sobering. Even if Grant went back into the flames and pulled Mocks out, Callahan had no intention of letting them survive. This was just another game. Strings to pull on his playthings to entertain, then dispose of when they no longer amused him.
Grant sprinted back toward the flaming structure, the heat unbearable as he rushed through the wall of smoke at the door. A thick filter of fumes darkened even the fires inside, and Grant stumbled blindly, every breath choking him.
“Mocks!” Grant said, his voice raspy. “Mocks!”
The first floor was consumed with fire, but the second had yet to fully catch. He blindly found the stairs to his left, remembering the location of the stairs prior to the fire. He hunched over on his ascent, hearing the wooden steps groaning and bending with his weight. He avoided the handrails, flames already crawling up the top. A few of the steps had caught fire as well, and Grant jumped over them to the second floor.
Grant hacked up a spat of phlegm that felt like one of his lungs had dislodged. He wheezed in crippling short gasps and was forced to shut his eyes to shield himself from the smoke.
Finally, Grant lifted his head and forced his bloodshot, watering eyes to open. The collapse of the roof had consumed most of the second floor. But near the back wall on her side and tied to a post was his partner.
“Mocks!” Grant crawled forward, unable to stand anymore, his hands and feet gliding over the hot wood, covering him in soot. Loud cracks and pops filtered through the air, and Grant knew the place wasn’t going to stand for much longer.
Grant fumbled for the knife in his pocket and untied the rope around Mocks’s ankles and wrists. She was unconscious, a gag in her mouth. Thank god she was so light, because as Grant wrapped his arms around her, his body groaned in defiance.
A loud crackling caught Grant’s attention, and he turned toward the stairs only to watch them collapse. And as the stairs gave way, the floor buckled.
The disruption sparked another burst of embers that rained over Grant and Mocks. He pulled Mocks close and shielded her body. The roar of the flames, the crack of wood, and voices in his own mind blocked out the ability to think. He glanced down at Mocks’s face, which had darkened from the soot. He couldn’t let them die here. Not like this.
A faint ray of light where the smoke escaped through a window illuminated the hazy veil of fumes and flames. Grant grabbed hold of Mocks and the rope and yanked her toward the window. Twice Grant was forced to stop, his body convulsing. Oxygen deprivation was taking hold, and nearly all of his vision had blacked out. Only a small keyhole of clarity remained to guide him forward.
Another loud crack, and the floor jolted and the roof lowered. Grant hastened his pace. Five feet away. Then four feet. Then three. Another round of coughing paralyzed him and he lost his grip on Mocks’s shoulder. He lost feeling in his feet and legs. Numb fingers fumbled clumsily over Mocks’s shirt and he pulled her forward, but only for a few inches before he lost his grip again. Grant’s lungs turned to bricks, and he breathed short, lifeless gasps that worsened the dizziness.
The floor rumbled again and flaming debris fell over Grant and Mocks. A crack in the roof appeared and offered another escape for the smoke. The thick black pea soup lessened a bit, and Grant took hold of Mocks once more.
They were less than a foot from the window now. One final push, every muscle in his body breaking down, and the insides of his chest burning and melting into nothing from the fire and smoke around him.
Grant stood next to the open window, gulping as much air as he could in the small sliver of space below the column of smoke escaping the same imprisonment. He reached back for Mocks and pulled her head out into the open. He wasn’t sure if she was even breathing, and he wasn’t in sound mind to check.
A fifteen-foot drop stood in the way to their freedom. Bushes lined the ground, and they would soften the blow a little. The roof groaned, cracked, and gave way again, this time dropping a foot before stopping.
Grant pulled Mocks to the edge, then tied the rope back around her wrists. He lowered her body over the side feet first, keeping hold of her hands in the process, then when her arms were stretched as far as they would go he grabbed the rope and lowered her until the rope ran out, turning the fifteen foot drop into four feet. Grant let the rope go and Mocks’s lifeless body crumpled into the bushes with a thud.
The building trembled beneath Grant’s stomach and he pushed himself to his hands and knees. He lingered at the edge. Another groan from the roof, and it finally gave way. Grant jumped from the ledge of the window and his body tensed before impact.
He landed feet first, and his left leg cracked as he crumpled into the grass and bushes. He screamed, but his voice was drowned out by the crash of the mill as it caved in on itself.
Grant whimpered and examined his leg. He couldn’t see the extent of the injury with his pants still on, so he reached for his knife and slashed the fabric. Once the cloth was removed, it revealed a large bruise on the front quad of his left leg. He poked it and he screamed as his leg barked in anger.
He hacked and coughed, and then his stomach soured, and he turned to his side, retching a pile of bile that was as hot and black as the smoke he’d just inhaled. He spit, but was unable to rid himself of the taste, and collapsed. His lungs ached, and his brain buzzed from the lack of oxygen.
Slowly, Grant lifted his head and spotted Mocks sprawled out in a lifeless mess in the bushes. He forced himself to sit up, a sharp pain running from his leg all the way up his left side. He leaned to the right, putting all his weight on that side, keeping his left leg as straight and as immobile as possible.
But even the smallest movement triggered pain, and before Grant was even able to lift his butt off the ground, he was forced to stop. His will had smoldered into nothing, like the mill that nearly burned him alive.
Shouts made him lift his head, and it triggered another jolt of pain. His leg was already swelling from the fracture. The shouts drew closer, and he remembered the pair of bodyguards with rifles next to Callahan on the other side of the mill.
Grant forced himself up. He hobbled toward Mocks and grabbed her arm, too weak to pull her any other way, and dragged her deeper into the forest.
It was slow, and painful. Mind-numbingly painful. Every limp forward stabbed knives into Grant’s body. And just before the pair of shooters stepped around the mill, Grant hid Mocks behind the cover of bushes and he dropped to the ground next to her, muffling his pained noises and concentrating on not giving away their position.
The pair of guards continued to chat back and forth, and their voices were soon drowned out by the thump of helicopter blades. The wind from the aircraft gusted smoke into the forest where Grant and Mocks were hidden, and Grant knew his window was short.
Grant shifted his weight back onto his right leg as he used the tree trunk next to the bushes to help himself up. The smoke blew through like a hazy fog and once again choked the breath from Grant’s lungs.
But the smoke provided cover, blinding Grant and the gang members to a visibility of less than a foot. Grant remained quiet and listened for the sound of footfalls. He clutched the knife in his hand, his arm coiled to strike. A rifle’s barrel entered his view, and Grant spun around, leading with the tip of his knife, and found the thug’s throat.
Blood spurted out in a geyser, warm claret covering Grant’s face in a splatter as the thug clawed at Grant’s arm. The man dropped to his knees, gurgling his last few breaths. Grant snatched the rifle from the ground and immediately raised it to the hazy fog that still covered the forest floor.
> Grant limped forward cautiously, his finger over the trigger. The chopper blades wound down and the smoke began to clear.
A shadow appeared to his left and Grant turned fast, too fast. The pain in his leg caused him to collapse and groan. The incident caught the thug’s attention and he turned and fired, missing Grant as he fell.
From the grass, Grant raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger until the shadow dropped to the ground. The thump of helicopter blades ended, and Grant rolled to his side, hacking up another wad of black phlegm. He stood, using the rifle as a crutch as he approached the still-burning mill.
Grant crept along the side and slowed once he neared the edge. He craned his neck around the side and got one look at the chopper before the guard and pilot spotted him. They shouted in Cebuano, and Grant fired, squeezing the trigger before he had gotten the chance to aim properly.
The first four bullets missed, but the next three connected with the pilot, and then the next four dropped the co-pilot. Grant then swung the rifle’s sight toward a stunned Callahan, rushing from the chopper’s tail toward the deck, but the old man wasn’t faster than Grant’s trigger finger.
Two bullets entered Callahan’s side and he tripped to the ground, sprawling out on his belly, moaning from the gunshot wounds. Grant checked left and right, making sure there weren’t any more surprises, but when no more gunshots sounded, he figured the coast was clear.
Grant lowered the weapon and limped toward the old man still wallowing on the ground. He watched Callahan try and reach inside his jacket, but Grant fired another shot close to the old man’s body and he stopped.
Two red blotches covered the bullet holes in Callahan’s left side, and blood dripped onto the grass, some of it smeared from the way he wallowed on the ground.
Grant walked over, the pain in his leg displayed in full with each grimace of his face. By the time he reached the old man, Grant couldn’t even hold the rifle up anymore.
Callahan sucked air, his mouth reddening with blood. “So,” he coughed, and specks of blood fell onto his chin and white shirt. “Finally come to slay the devil?” He frowned and another spat of hacking, this round more vicious than the previous one. He clutched his side where his wounds were, gingerly grazing his fingers over the holes, then winced upon contact and retracted his hand. “Go on then, Detective.”
“You’ve abducted and molested children,” Grant said. “Murdered, ripped apart families, shuttled drugs and sex slaves for profit. You don’t deserve a trial. A cell would be too good for you. Even with the knowledge of what they’d do to you in prison.”
“I’m sure I’d get mine,” Callahan said. “But you want to do it yourself. Take my lesson and make it come full circle.” He nodded to the rifle. “Or are you too weak to stomach it?”
Grant looked at the rifle that hung from his fingertips, then to the deck of the chopper. A can of gasoline was on board. Grant dropped the rifle and reached for it.
“No!” Callahan held up his hand as Grant soaked the old man with fuel from head to toe.
Grant emptied the can, tossed it aside, and then retrieved Mocks’s green Bic from Callahan’s jacket pocket. He gave the lighter a careful flick, mindful of his fuel-soaked hands, and watched the flame sprout from the top.
“You were right,” Grant said. “It does feel good to get what you want.”
Grant tossed the lighter onto Callahan’s body and stepped back as the old man caught fire. He writhed on the ground, screaming, rolling to try and put the fire out, but he was covered in too much fuel.
The odor of burnt flesh and charcoaled clothes was nauseating, and watching the old man’s flesh melt and blacken made him sick to his stomach. But he watched the old man until the screams and movement ended. And when it was over, Grant turned around, limping back toward Rick and Mocks and the collapsed, smoldering sawmill.
11
The hospital machines beeped in a steady rhythm, which Grant found to be a comforting sign, considering they were hooked up to him. He’d slept for most of the day, but with his leg in a cast, there wasn’t much else he could do.
He jiggled his left wrist and tugged against the cuffs that kept him in the bed. That didn’t help his mobility either. He glanced over to the door where the pair of officers watched his room. He rested his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes.
He’d been stuck in the room for almost three days now. He’d had visits from nearly everyone, even the ambassador, but there was still one he was waiting for. A hard smack to Grant’s right shoulder opened his eyes.
“Hey.”
The expression on Mocks’s face was stoic. She stood there, dressed in a blue blouse, and her hair brushed off her face and tucked behind her ears, those green eyes focused on him. The oxygen tank was at her side, and the mask in it hung limp in her hand.
Both of them still had trouble breathing from the smoke inhalation, though Mocks’s was worse because she was unconscious. The doctors said the gag around her mouth saved her life because it blocked most of the smoke from her lungs.
And then, without a word, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. He slowly reciprocated, giving her a gentler squeeze than he received, and she sniffled into his shoulder.
“You owe me a new lighter,” Mocks said.
Grant laughed, and it triggered a spat of coughing, and she lifted her oxygen mask in a peace offering gesture.
“Want a hit?” she asked.
“No, no,” Grant answered, coughing and waving her off. “I’m fine.”
“I had to check with the doctors to make sure there wasn’t anything addicting in here,” Mocks said, looking down at the tank. “I suppose this is one thing that I’m supposed to be addicted to.”
“Breathing is important,” Grant said. “How’s Rick?”
“Some of his stitching had opened up, but no further damage to report,” Mocks answered. “He would have come, but the cops made him wait in the hall. I think the only reason they let me inside is because they knew we were partners. That, and I didn’t have my gun on me.” She smiled, but it faded. “What do you know so far?”
Grant shrugged. “Not a whole lot. My attorney told me he’s confident the D.A. will drop the charges, and if I do time, it’ll be minimal.”
“The media has turned your story into a circus,” Mocks said, shaking her head. “Channel Three tracked down Ellen’s parents. They didn’t comment though.”
Grant didn’t think they would. He hadn’t heard from them since the funeral. He wasn’t the only person who blamed himself for Ellen’s death. “The nurse keeps asking me if I want to watch it on the television. But I’ll have plenty of time for that when they release me from the hospital.”
“House arrest?” Mocks asked.
“Yeah,” Grant answered. It was the best he could have hoped for, considering all the laws he broke. Murder by coercion was still murder. “What about you? You get to keep your badge?”
“The lieutenant is making a strong case for me,” Mocks answered. “I might get bumped down to traffic, but I’m not sure. Depends on how much trouble they think I caused.”
“Well then you’re off the force for sure,” Grant said.
She punched his arm again.
“You hungry?” Mocks asked.
“Starving,” Grant said.
Mocks removed a packet of strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts from her pocket, and Grant chuckled as she handed him one.
“You’re unbelievable,” Grant said.
“What?” Mocks said, biting into her pastry. “I was going through withdrawals.” She closed her eyes and let out a satisfied moan as crumbs sprinkled onto her shirt.
After the treats were eaten, the silence lingered. Grant knew that his detective days were over, and that meant he didn’t have a partner anymore.
“It’s not right,” Mocks said, her eyes reddening. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I did plenty wrong,” Grant said. “And it’s high time I paid fo
r it.”
Mocks quickly grabbed hold of his hand, and tears fell from the corner of her eyes. “I will always have your back, Grant. No matter what. You tell me what you need and I’m there. No questions asked.” She squeezed, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “What do you need?”
Grant felt the mist growing in his own eyes and engulfed her small hand in his. “I’ve never worked with better. It’s an honor to leave the force knowing that.”
Mocks fell forward, resting her forehead on his shoulder, and she sobbed. Grant wrapped his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.
“Thank you, Grant,” Mocks said, pulling her head back and wiping her nose with her shirt sleeve. “For everything.”
A knock stole their attention, and they both looked to see Lieutenant Furst lingering in the doorway. “Detectives.”
Mocks wiped her eyes quickly, and Grant did the same.
“I was hoping to have a minute with you, Grant,” Furst said. “If now’s a good time?”
“It’s all right,” Mocks said. “I should go.” She looked to Grant and smiled. “Bye, partner.”
“Bye, Mocks.” Grant watched her leave, the oxygen tank handle gripped in her hand as she rolled it behind her.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Grant asked.
Furst kept his hands behind his back. “How’s the leg?”
Grant examined the cast. “Still broken.”
Furst approached Grant’s bedside and revealed the folder he’d been hiding. It was thin, only a few papers inside. “The official charges filed against you. Thought you’d want to look at it.”
“Dead men usually don’t get to see their certificates,” Grant said under his breath, opening the folder. He sifted through the pages. There weren’t any surprises. Murder, withholding evidence, use of unnecessary force. With every line, he totaled the number of years a maximum sentence would carry if he was convicted. Grant would die in prison.
“Most of it is to just make an example,” Furst said, trying to sound reassuring. “There’s been such a public circus about this whole situation that the D.A. can’t appear to be going soft on you. Especially with the exposure of the corruption in the Senator’s office. Heads are rolling.”
