Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn)

by J. D. Rhoades

  There was another moment’s hesitation. Then Bob nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. But you give us whatever gun that is on your back.”

  Wolf shrugged. “Sure. Not like I need it.” He slid it from behind his back and lowered it to the floor.

  Pete retrieved it, then poked Wolf in the back with his machine gun. “Up the stairs, asshole.”

  Bob went first, Wolf in the middle, Pete bringing up the rear. They exited into the kitchen. “Johnny?” Bob called out.

  “Dining room,” Johnny called back.

  Bob entered the dining room, then drew up short. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. He stood aside as Wolf came up behind him.

  Johnny was in his wheelchair at the far end of the table. He held a shotgun across his lap. Clay stood to one side, dressed in a coverall that had probably once been yellow but was now stained and spattered with blood. He held a bloodstained ax in his hand. His eyes were somewhere far away.

  Stretched out on the table like an obscene feast was the body of Agent Blauner. He was facedown, his face turned away from Wolf. He was fastened to the table by leather straps across his wrists that looped around the table legs. His back had been cut open, the wounds crude and jagged. Wolf could see splinters of bone protruding from the edges and the white ridge of the spine down the middle. Two dark, blood-sodden lumps of tissue extended from the wounds and lay across the dead man’s shoulder blades like stunted wings. Blood soaked the table and the floor.

  “The Blood Eagle,” Johnny said. “Nice work, huh?”

  “Why?” Wolf said.

  “Why what?”

  “Why kill him? And why like that?”

  Johnny shrugged. “I don’t like traitors. And he wasn’t any use to us anymore.”

  Wolf held up his hand, the deadman switch still clutched in it. “Where’s my wife?” he said.

  “What the hell is that supposed to be?”

  Wolf gestured with his chin at the wall behind Johnny. “While I was living here, I rigged up some surprises for anyone who might want to come looking for me. You’re sitting right in front of one of them. There’s about a pound of C-4 plastered up inside that wall. And the wall of the kitchen. And the front parlor. This is the detonator. Rigged to blow as soon as I release this switch.”

  “Bullshit,” Johnny said. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Pull that picture away,” Wolf said. He gestured at a bland, oldfashioned print of a still life, hanging on the wall by the window. “And see if you still think I’m bluffing.”

  Johnny stared at him, considering, then gestured to the man beside him. “Tiny,” he said. “Check it out.”

  Tiny hesitated, then reached out and gingerly lifted the print off the wall. There was a patch of plaster behind the print, about a foot in diameter. It was unpainted and looked newer than the plaster around it.

  “There’s another bomb behind the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. And another in the wall of the front parlor. There’s enough to bring the whole building down.”

  WHAT THE fuck for?” Pete blurted out. “Shut up, Pete,” Johnny snapped.

  Wolf answered anyway. “There’s worse things than dying. Right, Johnny? Things you’d rather die than see happen. Things you’d be willing to blow the whole place up rather than have happen to you. Now, Johnny. I’m going to ask one more time. If you don’t answer, I’m going to assume you killed her like you did this poor dumb son of a bitch here. And if that happened . . . well, that’s one of the things I’d rather not live with.”

  Johnny looked hard into Wolf ’s eyes. Then he spoke. “Pete,” he said. “Go get the bitch. Bring her in here.” He gestured at the body on the table. “Fred-dog, Tiny, get this out of here.” They moved slowly, reluctantly, but they dragged Blauner from the table. Grunting with the effort, they hauled him between them and out of the room. A few moments later, Pete came back in, pushing Kendra in front of him. She was pale, and her hand was wrapped in a bloody bandage, but she was alive. She gasped when she caught sight of Wolf.

  “Hey, honey,” Wolf said. “I’m getting you out of here. Just hang tough.”

  “I don’t think so,” Johnny said. He looked at Clay. He was still staring off into space, absently shifting the ax in his hands. Johnny turned back to Wolf and smiled. “Fiona says hi, by the way.” Wolf didn’t answer. Johnny glanced over at Kendra and smirked. She stared straight ahead. Johnny turned back to Wolf. “Must be something about you, buddy,” he said. “She never got over you.”

  “Johnny,” Wolf said, “you’re going to let us walk out of here. Bob can go with us, unarmed. When I get to my vehicle, I’ll give him the detonator. Then the rest of you can get out of here.”

  “I’ve got another offer to make,” Johnny said. “I let the bitch go. Then Clay and I do what we came here to do. She lives. You live, sort of. And I get what I want.”

  “I don’t think much of that deal, Johnny.”

  “Then blow the place up,” Johnny said. “I don’t give a fuck.” “Hey,” Pete said.

  “Wait a minute,” Florida Bob protested. Johnny raised the shotgun and fired a barrel of double-aught buckshot into Pete’s chest. The shot slammed him against the wall. His face went blank with shock as he began to slide to the floor.

  “Shit!” Bob screamed and raised his own submachine gun. Johnny fired again, and Florida Bob’s face disappeared into wet red pulp. The gun clattered to the floor. Johnny cracked the shotgun open and began to reload.

  Clay seemed to come alive for the first time. He snarled and raised the ax over his head. He started around the table toward Wolf, his eyes wild. Wolf threw the detonator aside. Kendra screamed. Wolf scrabbled for the machine gun, but Clay was on him before he could bring it up. Wolf rolled aside as the ax came down between him and the gun. Clay’s strength buried the head of the ax inches deep into the heart-pine floor. Clay struggled briefly, wrenched it loose. The effort threw him off balance, and Wolf came up off the floor, smashing the heel of his hand up under Clay’s chin. It was the blow that had killed Furry, but Clay had the table to break his fall, and he went sprawling across it. The ax flew from his grip. Wolf leaped atop the table and grabbed Clay by the throat. He slammed Clay’s head against the table, his fingers pressing against the windpipe. Clay’s hands grabbed at Wolf ’s wrists, trying to break the death grip. Wolf heard a metallic click. He looked up into the barrels of Johnny’s shotgun.

  THE AX had landed at Kendra’s feet. Johnny snapped the shotgun closed and took aim at Wolf. Kendra bent down and snatched the ax from the floor, screaming again as the action sent lightning bolts of pain through her maimed hand. The missing finger interfered with her grip, and her first stroke smacked Johnny in the chest with the flat of the blade. It was enough to throw his aim off, however, and the double load of buckshot destroyed the hanging light fixture over the table. It blasted apart in a shower of metal and glass fragments, plunging the room into semidarkness, the only illumination the light from the next room. Pieces of the shattered fixture rained down on Wolf and Johnny. They rolled off the table to crash onto the floor. Kendra sobbed with pain and terror and rage as she drew the ax back and swung again. This time, her grip was better, her aim true. The blade bit deep into the soft flesh of Johnny Trent’s neck, not stopping until it lodged between the vertebrae. The severed jugular and carotid spurted dark red, the breath leaving his lungs through the windpipe in a hoarse gurgling squeal, air mixing and bubbling though the gouts of blood. She pulled the ax back, still screaming. Some rational part of her knew he was mortally wounded, but her rage at the way he had callously mutilated her was in control of her now, blotting out any thought of mercy. She struck again, and the ax sliced easily through ragged flesh, bone, and tendon. Johnny’s head came off and thumped on the floor. Kendra fell to her knees, sobbing. She tossed the ax away in horror.

  The door to the dining room was yanked open. Tiny stood there, his mouth gaping in comical surprise. He looked at Johnny’s body, in the light from the hall. The body was slumping sid
eways, the fountains of gore already beginning to slow their rhythmic pulsing. She saw him standing there and grabbed frantically for the shotgun. “You know what?” Tiny said. “Fuck this.” Then he was gone.

  WOLF had landed on top of Clay, his fists working like pistons as he tried to smash the other man’s face in. But Clay got a knee up that caught Wolf in the balls. He grunted in agony, the strength suddenly draining from his arms as everything south of his chest exploded in sickening pain. Clay tossed him aside easily, and he landed on the floor. Clay turned his head slightly in time to see Johnny’s head hit the floor and roll beneath the table.

  “Johnny!” he screamed and lurched to his feet. He saw the body crumple to the side. His eyes were wide, the whites showing. “Fucking Bitch,” he growled. He started after her, stumbled in the blood on the floor, fell to his knees. “Johnny,” he screamed again. This time there was a sob in his voice, as if his heart were broken. He staggered to his feet again. “Fucking. Kill. You.” Wolf was still trying to get his breath as he rolled to his hands and knees. He saw the machine gun still lying next to Florida Bob’s prostrate body. He gagged with pain as he clutched for it. Clay was stooping, grabbing the ax, raising it high above Kendra’s kneeling form, ready to bring it down and split her skull. Wolf fired wildly, onehanded, the room lighting up again with the strobing muzzle flash. The shots went wide, cutting a line of holes in the wall before shattering the dining room window. The air was full of flying fragments. Clay stopped, the ax in midair. Some instinct for preservation took over, and he bolted for the dining room door, where Tiny had been a moment before. Then he, too, was gone, leaving Wolf and Kendra alone in the dining room that had been turned into a slaughterhouse. The only sound was her weeping. Wolf crawled to her and took her in his arms. She collapsed into his embrace, sobbing.

  “Shhhh,” he said. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” She didn’t answer at first. Then she said, “He’s still alive.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “it’s okay.”

  “No,” she said, “he’ll be back.”

  “No, honey,” he soothed. “He’s headed for tall timber.”

  “He’ll be back,” she insisted. Her voice was desperate. Her eyes were full of nightmares. “You’ve got to get him, Tony. You’ve got to kill him. He’ll be back.”

  “Okay. Okay.” He got slowly to his feet. He was beginning to feel as if he might be able to walk again.

  She looked up at him. “There weren’t any bombs.”

  “No.”

  She looked at the new plaster. “So what’s that?”

  “That’s where I patched the holes in the walls,” he said. “This place was a damn wreck when I got it.”

  “So what was that in your hand?”

  “Project I never finished.”

  “Huh,” she said. Then she drew his head to hers and kissed him. “I missed you so much,” she murmured against his lips.

  He kissed her back, then drew away slightly. “I missed you, too,” he whispered. “But I’ve got to go.”

  “Yes,” she said, and her eyes narrowed. The line of her mouth hardened. The fear and panic were gone, replaced by cold rage. “Find him. Find him and kill him.”

  “On the way,” he said. “There’s a phone in the kitchen. Call 911.” He walked over and grabbed Pete’s machine gun up off the floor. “You remember how to use one of these?”

  She took it from him. “I think it’ll come back to me.”

  “Any of those bastards come back,” Wolf said, “take them out.”

  “Not a problem.”

  BUCKTHORN TRUDGED slowly along the dirt road, back in the direction of the truck. His eyes swept the ground, back and forth, looking for the telltale glint of the hand-cuff key. Screw it, he thought, as he reached the truck. I’ll just walk back to the road. Someone’ll see me. He hated the thought of having someone see him handcuffed, but he’d paced up and down looking for the key several times without success.

  He heard someone crashing through the underbrush in the nearby woods. There was a thud and a curse, then more sounds of footsteps in the dry leaves. “Wolf?” Buckthorn called out.

  It wasn’t Wolf who came out of the woods, though. It was Clay Trent, like an apparition from a horror movie. He was wearing a yellow coverall stained with blood, and he was carrying an ax. His eyes were wild; Buckthorn could see the whites from where he was.

  “They took the goddamn van,” Clay said, as if Buckthorn should have known what he was talking about. “Fucking cowards. They ran off. They took the goddamn van. I’ll fucking kill them for that.”

  Buckthorn tried to keep his voice soothing. He started backing away from the truck slowly. “That’s too bad. Why don’t you—”

  But Clay had caught sight of the truck. He strode over to it, set the ax down, and yanked the driver’s side door open. He turned back to Buckthorn. “Where’s the keys?”

  “I don’t know,” Buckthorn said. “I guess he must have taken them.”

  Clay covered the ground between himself and Buckthorn in a few swift steps. He punched Buckthorn in the stomach. With his hands behind him, there was no way for Buckthorn to avoid taking the full force of the blow in the solar plexus. He fell to his knees, retching in agony. Clay kicked him, again in the stomach. Buckthorn fell over, writhing on the ground. “Where are the fucking keys?!” Clay screamed. Buckthorn couldn’t catch his breath to answer. Clay picked up the ax. “Tell me where they are,” he said through gritted teeth, “or I’ll start cutting pieces off you till you do.”

  Buckthorn rolled over, looked up at him. He finally managed to draw enough breath to answer. “Okay,” he wheezed. “Okay. Just don’t hurt me anymore.” He looked Clay in the eye. “They’re in the glove box.”

  WOLF heard the shouting, heard Clay’s voice raised in maniacal rage. Then he heard the bang, followed by screaming. He came out of the woods near where he had left the truck. Clay was on the ground behind the vehicle, flopping like a fish, his hands over his face, his vision seared by the flash grenade. Buckthorn was staggering to his feet. He walked over to Clay, drew his foot back. He stopped and put it back down. He looked over and saw Wolf standing there.

  Go ahead,” Wolf said. “You want to kick his fucking teeth in, I’m the last person to stand in your way.”

  “No. Thanks anyway,” Buckthorn said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d help me look for the keys to these damn cuffs. I think we’re gonna need them in a minute.”

  “Yeah.” Wolf fished the key out of his back pocket and started walking toward Buckthorn.

  “Hey,” Buckthorn said. “I thought you tossed it out in the road.”

  “Yeah. Well. Sorry about that. I needed to keep you occupied. I

  figured if you thought the key was around, you’d want to look for it rather than have somebody else get you out of the cuffs.”

  “You son of a—” Buckthorn stopped. He sighed. “Just get me out of these things.”

  “You got it,” Wolf said. He stepped behind Buckthorn. He didn’t immediately unlock the cuffs. “You’re probably going to want to deck me when you get loose,” he said. “And I don’t really blame you, Sheriff. But now’s not really a good time.”

  “I know that, son,” Buckthorn said. “I’ve done some stupid things lately, but I’m not a total idiot.”

  “What I’m saying is, I’ll give you a chance. One clear punch. Just not now.”

  “Goddammit, boy, will you stop jawin’ and take the damn cuffs off?”

  “Just so we’re clear.” He worked for a moment and the cuffs fell away. There was the sound of sirens in the distance, coming closer. Buckthorn quickly got Clay Trent into the cuffs. He straightened up. “Anthony Wolf,” he said, “you’re under arrest. For assault on a law enforcement officer. For resisting, obstructing, and interfering with a law enforcement officer in the course of duty. For kidnapping in the first degree. I’ll probably think of a lot of other things, but that’ll do for now.”

  Wolf looked amused. “You
realize I still have the gun here.” Buckthorn didn’t smile. “I realize that, after all this, you’re still a sworn officer of the law. You may’ve had a reason to do what you’ve done up to now. I’ll let the courts straighten that out. And I’ll tell them the truth, straight up, and . . . well, they’ll do what they’ll do and I’ll be content. But now all that’s done. You turn that gun on me just to get away . . . well, you took the measure of me pretty good, Mr. Wolf. But I think I took the measure of you, too. I don’t think you’re a lawless man.”

  Wolf stared at him for a moment. Then he set the machine gun down. “Well, there you’re wrong,” he said. “But I’m damned if I can bring myself to shoot you.” He stepped back. Buckthorn picked the gun up. “Can I ask a favor, Sheriff?” Wolf said. “My wife’s going to the hospital. I’d like to make sure she’s okay.”

  Buckthorn rubbed his chin. “You’ll come down when you’re done?”

  “And make a full statement,” Wolf said.

  “Yeah. Okay.” Buckthorn looked down at Clay, who was sitting up, looking around him with a blank expression.

  “I can’t see,” Clay said in a small voice. “I’m blind.”

  “It ain’t permanent,” Buckthorn said. “Get up, you son of a bitch, before I change my mind about kicking your ass.”

  THE WAITING area of the gibson county Hospital’s tiny emergency room was cramped but brightly decorated with pastel colors and flower posters on the walls. A slight smell of disinfectant hung in the air. Wolf sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair and thumbed through a months-old People magazine. A young black woman sat a few chairs away, a child asleep on her shoulder. The woman rocked back and forth gently, her eyes focused on nothing.

  A balding dark-skinned man in a doctor’s white coat entered the room. He scanned the room with his dark brown eyes until he saw Wolf. “Mr. Wolf?” he said, his words clipped and precise, with only a trace of accent. Wolf stood up. “I am Dr. Bhagram,” the man said. He didn’t extend his hand. “You are Mr. Wolf?”