by Davis Bunn
Dan’s phone chose that moment to ring. He answered and listened a moment, then shifted around and handed the phone back to where Paul sat alone in the rear seat. “You might as well handle this.”
“You sure?”
“Always like to have one voice talking when we’re facing action.”
“But I’m—”
“You’re the lead man,” Granville agreed. “Answer the phone.”
Paul accepted the phone. “This is Travers.”
“This is Sergeant Hawser, out of Patrick’s Air Force Base. I’m calling as ordered.”
“Roger that. What’s your ETA?”
“Sir, this gear isn’t what you’d call a record breaker when it comes to speed. It’ll take us the better part of a day. Call it fifteen hundred hours tomorrow.”
“Want to check your directions with me?”
The sergeant spoke with the laconic professionalism of a guy who had delivered his gear in far worse situations than Brentonville.
Paul confirmed the directions, handed back the phone, then had an idea. “Mind if we stop by the apartments?”
When they pulled in to the apartment parking lot, Paul motioned to the others to stay where they were. He walked down to the apartment holding Juanita’s family. The old woman watched his approach through the screen, then turned and spoke into the sheltered interior. Three generations pushed through the door, the little girl nestled into her mother’s arms as if this were her favorite place in the whole world. Paul greeted them and asked, “Any chance I could have a word with the boy?”
The middle woman made a weaving motion with the hand not holding her daughter. “It is best if we speak for him.”
Paul had been expecting this but had decided there was no reason not to try. “Does he have a way of getting in touch with the bad men?”
“He was given a number to call and a promise of more money.”
“All he had to do was tell them where they could find Amy.”
“Yes. Is so.”
Paul drew a pad and pen from his pocket. He wrote out Bob Denton’s address. “Amy is staying here. Ask him to deliver the message tomorrow, late afternoon.”
The woman accepted the paper. “You will be waiting?”
“Me and some friends,” he confirmed. “Please stress that the timing of the message is important.”
“Tomorrow afternoon, I will make clear to him. You will make them go away from here?”
“Far, far away,” Paul agreed.
Something of his grim resolve must have emerged with the words, because the woman rewarded him with a broad smile. “The people here with us, they are calling you ‘God’s warrior.’ ”
The simple words rocked him in a way he had neither expected nor been prepared for. “I’m just a guy trying to do his best at his job.”
“You are a good friend to us.” She made the paper disappear. “I will speak to the boy, and he will deliver your message. Go with God, señor.”
CHAPTER 30
The storm had cooled things off, and the sky was luminous. Paul and Consuela sat in Granville’s rear seat. All four windows were down. The distant traffic was a constant sibilant hush. The sunlight was diffused through ancient live oaks that lined either side of the road where they waited. It was possible to sit in the quiet car and imagine how this residential area once was. People sitting on their front porches, kids playing games up and down the streets, cars dodging balls and bikes and dogs, neighbors’ hands raised in greeting to people they knew and those they didn’t. Now the lone car that bounced down the rutted street rattled their car with the bass. The driver gave them the gunner’s stare as he passed. Granville and Consuela scoped out the car, then Consuela asked, “Where is your team?”
“Inbound.” Paul glanced at his watch. “Five minutes.”
Lucy had decided to return to work, which Paul had endorsed instantly. As soon as the backup arrived, this place was going to get very hot indeed.
Consuela demanded, “You trust this to work?”
“Dan was right.” Paul stared at the silent house a hundred yards farther down the road and felt the slow-burning anger in his gut. “It’s time for a little housecleaning.”
Consuela pursed her lips. “I’m only asking on account of how me and the chief have gone out on a limb here. Asking the judge we trust to issue both a writ and a demolition notice. Especially when we couldn’t tell him what exactly was going down, since we’re still not clear on a lot of this.”
Maybe it was the pain meds, or maybe it was just the way Dan Eldridge responded to incoming fire. Whatever the reason, Paul had never sounded more relaxed than now. “You heard the man. When we’re done, that problem up there will be gone for good.”
Paul heard the faint blaring of horns on the main road and felt more than heard the slow, grinding rumble of the team’s approach. “They’re here.”
The truck made a slow turn onto their street, urged on by a dozen rush-hour car horns. It was not a big vehicle. Nor was it very tall. But it had so many tires on either side that they formed a rolling series of caterpillar-style legs. The flatbed load was covered with a camouflage tarp. The tires scrunched slowly down the street, grinding over the potholes and the gravel.
Dan Eldridge waved them to a halt. The brakes sighed, the massive engine went silent. The doors opened and men in army green climbed down. “Which one is Eldridge?”
“That’s me.” Dan walked over and shook hands, then waved Paul forward. “This is our lead operative, Paul Travers.”
Granville and Consuela joined them. Introductions were made; then together they walked back to stand beside the load. Consuela asked, “What have you got hidden under there?”
“An answer to everybody’s prayers,” Paul replied. “I hope.”
Consuela said, “Just tell me it’s not a gun.”
“The only explosions will come from inside the house.”
“You mean they’ll be shooting.”
“I expect so.”
Dan Eldridge grinned. “I’d hate to think we went to all this trouble for nothing.”
The tarp was lashed down in a couple dozen places. Great snakes of bungee-thick cords had to be coiled and set aside before the canvas cover was lifted. The two soldiers enjoyed having an audience and drew back the tarp as if unveiling a prize jewel.
“Whatever it is,” Paul said, “it sure is ugly.”
“You got that right, sir,” the driver agreed. “Don’t nobody do ugly like the army.”
Consuela said, “Will somebody tell me what it is I’m looking at?”
Dan Eldridge said, “We wanted to call it a Warthog, but the flyboys already had dibs on that. So we had to settle on Road-hog.” He patted a dappled green flank. “This sucker will plain flatten anything dumb enough to get in its way.”
The massive machine occupying the truck’s flatbed was definitely a vehicle of some sort. But there were no front windows, just a tight slit that ran above what looked like a reinforced snowplow. The blade’s upper edge was curved down, like a partly unpeeled banana. The plow ran down both sides of the vehicle. There were no doors. Five giant green air vents rose from the truck’s rear like stubby camouflaged smokestacks.
The truck driver said, “My orders were to deliver this baby and stand back. Which means one of you folks gets to steer.”
Dan pointed at Paul. “That would be you.”
Paul saw the others grin and knew nothing would be gained from arguing. Truth be told, he was thrilled by the prospect. “How do I get inside?”
“From the top, sir. Like you was climbing inside a tank. Which don’t stand a chance against my Road-hog, in case you were wondering.”
Paul clambered up the side. “Tell me what I’m getting for my nickel.”
“The front tires are solid Kevlar and mostly protected by the plow,
which is bent down, like you see, to deflect any blast. The half-track band at the back is depleted uranium-reinforced steel. Ditto for the plow and the sides. It was designed to lumber down the road and draw heat from everywhere, so the guys in the rear can stay safe and focus on their targets.” The driver was loving this. “Feel like taking her for a spin?”
Paul said, “No time better than now.”
Consuela said, “Give me a second.” She walked down the empty street, pulled a folded paper from her purse, and tossed it onto the ratty lawn. She walked back and said, “They’ve just been served.”
The entrance was sealed with a submarine-style portal, which the trucker held open while Paul scooted inside. The interior was padded like an asylum cage, and even the control panel was wrapped in foam. The driver leaned through the top and said, “Ain’t no sharp edges in this baby, nothing to hurt the driver when you detonate an IED, which the Road-hog was designed to take out.” He pointed at the series of buttons in the narrow console. “Push that green button there and light her up.”
Paul did as he was told. The entire front and both sides below the slit windows contained a bank of screens, which all flickered to life. They showed the forward, sides, and rear views with crystal clarity. A screen below the front-and-center view flashed a query: Start motor y/n?
The driver said, “Your controls are like a computer game. The stick and them buttons. That’s it.”
Paul slipped into the chair, which gripped him on all sides like a gentle, padded fist. He clamped the chest belts and fitted his right hand to the control knob. To the left of the control handle was a diamond pattern of buttons, just like an arcade game. He moved the pointer to where it lit up the “yes” and pushed the button on the end of the handle. The motor rumbled to life.
The driver had to shout to be heard. “Okay, you got your reverse and your forward and your idle. How fast do you need to go?”
“Not fast, not far,” Paul yelled.
“That’s good, because shifting gears in this baby requires a PhD.” The driver retreated, shouted something to his mate, then ducked his head back inside. “The ramp’s in place. Your reverse cameras are the last ones to your right and your left both. Just draw your handle back toward you a trace—good, that’s far enough.”
The driver remained where he was, sprawled across the top, while the Road-hog backed slowly and angled as it started down the ramp. Paul thought he could hear the steel groan from the machine’s weight. When they leveled off and the two reverse screens showed he was in the center of the street, the driver said, “You’re in the green, sir.”
Paul waited until the driver had sealed him in, then he pushed the control handle forward. The motor’s roar was reduced to a soft growl by the insulation. The air-conditioning was a constant rush. Turning the beast was easy, just angle the lever. Paul started down the road toward his target and nudged the control slightly farther forward. As he accelerated to a slow-walking pace, he passed Granville and Consuela and Dan, who grinned their joyous confusion in reply to Paul’s passage. Paul resisted the urge to wave. A couple of dogs emerged from backyards to join the parade. One old woman came out her front door and gaped as he ambled past.
He climbed the curb between two rusting cars and crossed the refuse-strewn front yard. He sat there a few moments, aimed at the enemy, waiting to see if they would come out and surrender.
The house remained blank. Silent.
Paul had no idea who would be inside. But he had no intention of causing bodily harm.
He angled the machine slightly. The half-track jerked a little as it moved. Paul nudged the Road-hog forward. Halted once more, letting the massive beast of a motor do all the warning this crowd should ever need.
He pressed the lever forward. The engine seemed to roar in approval, as though gleeful over the chance to wreak havoc once more.
He peeled the side off the house as easily as taking the skin off ripe fruit. The sound of the grinding destruction was muted to where the engine almost covered the rending wood and screeching metal and scrunching glass. The interior of the house was as dark as a cave. Figures flitted around, and several drew guns and fired. Paul saw the brilliant flashes of gunfire and flinched away, at least at first.
Two men hopped down from the vanished side and aimed at him as he turned slowly around. Only he did not turn cleanly enough, and the plow’s tip ground its way through the rear garage’s doors. As he took aim at the house once more, he shot a glance through the right rear camera. The garage door lay like an exhausted tongue. Of the new cars, there was no sign.
He peeled another segment of the house off its foundation. The men kept firing from within. There were seven of them now, shouting at him and shooting their guns. Three of them held pistols in each hand, holding them sideways the way characters did in gangster films. Another man appeared in the half-demolished hallway and fired a sawed-off shotgun. The bullets sounded as faint as metal rain.
As he made his second turn in the plowed front yard, Paul paused long enough to watch Consuela and Granville race over. The former detective moved surprisingly fast for a guy of his size.
Paul hit the lever and started forward, this time aiming for the front door. Just as he felt the steps grind to dust under the plow, the right-hand screen showed the door of the house across the street open up. The two men and one woman clustered on the stoop watched him with a fury that Paul could see despite the distance and the screen’s flickering image. One of them was the fireplug of an agent, Tom Beeks. He saw two of them raise phones to their faces.
Paul crashed through the living room and the central hall and the kitchen. He saw mattresses and filthy stacked dishes and smoldering ashtrays and trash everywhere. One room held an array of chemicals and devices used for cooking meth. Then he was through the back door, and the screens cleared of the water shot out of the broken pipes.
Instead of doing another tight turn in the space between the house and the garage, he just kept on going. When he turned back, the Road-hog wore the garage roof like a hat.
Paul took one more crushing run through the house, then continued back across the lawn and left the garage roof in his wake. He trundled over the curb and down the road. The gunfire had stopped, since Consuela and Granville and the DEA agents had done what they should have been doing from the first day, which was join forces. Gang members were cinched into plastic ties and sprawled on the yard.
Paul drove back to where the two soldiers watched and laughed. The sergeant guided him back up the ramp and secured the Road-hog to the flatbed. Paul cut the motor and climbed down. His ears rang from the sudden silence.
The driver said, “I expect I’ll get about four hours down the road and finally come up with what I want to tell you.”
His mate spoke for the very first time. “I wouldn’t have missed that for Goofy.”
“I won’t tell anybody what I saw, sir. On account of how nobody would ever believe me.”
“Actually, it’s on account of how it didn’t happen,” Paul replied. “And you weren’t here.”
“Yeah, I believe I heard my lieutenant sing that same song.” The driver offered Paul his hand. “I’ll be laughing about this for years.”
Paul turned and stared behind him. The last portion of the house stood lonely and futile, surrounded by rubble and destruction. A pair of water spouts geysered above where the roof once stood. The gang members were whining and shouting. Paul heard the word “lawyer.” A trio of cop cars rushed past them, pulling up over the curb. The DEA agents retreated then, angry and red-faced over having their control stripped away.
Paul said, “Man, that was fun.”
“Hey, sir. Next time you need to smash something, the army is just a phone call away. That’s the specialty of the Green Machine.” The driver motioned to his mate. “Time to vamoose.”
CHAPTER 31
Amy was driven to the su
permarket by two crew-cut officers. Bob had looked disappointed over the prospect of having half a dozen others join them for dinner. But the team had just accomplished something important, or so it had sounded in the conversation with Paul. He and Granville and the others were stopping at the station for a bout of paperwork and wrangling with the DEA, then heading over. Amy might be a guest in Bob’s house, and she might be extremely aware of the home’s undercurrents. But she also knew the power of food.
Kimmie did not particularly like riding in the backseat of a cop car. Her nose wrinkled at the antiseptic smell and she looked uncertainly at her mother when the radio squawked. But the cops both had young children, and they turned down the radio, then did their best to play nice on the ride there and back.
Bob was at the door, awaiting their return. He helped carry in the groceries and unload the steaks and asparagus and baking potatoes and salad and bread and soft drinks. The officers accepted fresh mugs of coffee, then retreated to their ride. Bob stood tentatively by the kitchen’s entry, neither fully in nor out. Finally, Amy said, “Don’t hover, Bob. It makes me nervous.”
“Sorry, I just . . . Do we want to eat outside on the patio?”
“I think that would be nice, don’t you?”
“How many are coming?”
“I have no idea. Quite a few.” She couldn’t think with the weight of his solemn gaze on her. “Look, would you do me a favor and watch Kimmie while she swims in your pool?”
He brightened. “I’ve got a couple of inflatable belts the neighbors’ kids use.”
“Swell. She likes to think she can swim, but you have to watch her.”
“I will.” But he didn’t move. “I want you to be happy. Here. In my house.”
