Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn)

by J. D. Rhoades

  “WHAT the . . .” the jailer muttered. He started for the door, then hesitated. Wolf ’s paperwork wasn’t done, and he couldn’t leave a man alone who was still technically a prisoner. Wolf made the decision for him. He shoved the man aside and ran toward the courtroom door. “Hey!” the jailer yelled, following.

  PEOPLE were running out of the courthouse screaming. Howard instinctively turned the camera toward them. Gaby, however, was still watching the line of bikers. The pairs split apart, taking up positions on either side of the street. The first biker in line reached down beside his leg. He came up with a blocky-looking machine gun. Other bikers were drawing weapons of their own.

  “Howard!” Gaby yelled as the first rounds caught him in the chest.

  WOLF burst into the courtroom in time to see Clay and Nathan Trent disappearing out the back door. The smell of blood and gunpowder filled the air. He saw a deputy lying on the floor by the railing separating the area of the judge’s bench from the audience. As he started toward the fallen officer, Tim Buckthorn popped up from behind some seats that looked as if they’d been chewed on by an enormous angry animal. His weapon was trained on the center of Wolf ’s chest, and his eyes were wild. Wolf threw up his hands. “Hey!” he said. “It’s me!”

  The jailer came in right after Wolf and grabbed his shoulder angrily. “You get your ass—”

  “It’s okay, Tom,” Buckthorn called out. “He’s on our side.”

  “I am?” Wolf said.

  “You better be,” Buckthorn said grimly. “Because we’ve got a goddamn war going on out there.”

  The radios on Buckthorn’s belt and those of the fallen deputies were going crazy with the babble of panicked voices. The sound of gunshots could be heard through the walls, echoing eerily over the radios.

  “Tom,” Buckthorn told the jailer, “get to a weapons locker. Grab as much as you can carry. Then follow us.” He pointed at where two men lay dead in the courtroom aisle. “There’s a weapon there,” he told Wolf. “Come on.”

  GABY WAS pinned down. Most of the bikers seemed engaged in shooting up as much of the now-deserted main street as they could reach with their weapons, but a small contingent concentrated their fire on the courthouse. She could hear the bullets zipping by overhead, hear them ricocheting off the brick walls. Opposing them was a lone gray-haired deputy with his service pistol, crouched to the side behind the shattered frame of one of the doors. At short intervals, he would pop out from behind the doorframe and fire a couple of shots, only to be driven back inside by a hail of gun-fire.

  A white van pulled up to the curb in front of the courthouse. It was unmarked, nondescript. Two gunmen took up positions at the front and rear bumpers. The others dropped their weapons to the ground and began gunning their engines, ready for a quick departure. As soon as the van pulled away, they’d scatter down the back roads, trying to lose themselves in the countryside.

  Gaby crawled over to where Howard lay on his back. His breath came in great wheezing gasps. He turned his head to look as she reached him. His eyes were glazed with pain.

  “Get out of here, girl,” he whispered. “Go on. Go.”

  She ignored him. “Help!” she called to the deputy inside. “There’s someone hurt out here!”

  “Stay down, miss,” the deputy called back. “I’ve got a call in for backup. We’ve got people—” There was a flurry of gunshots from inside and a cry of pain. Then two men burst out of the door. One was a bearded man in a suit; the other was a younger man dressed in an orange jail jumpsuit. Both were armed, the bearded man with a small machine gun and the man in the jumpsuit with a pistol. The firing stopped, and a ragged cheer went up from the men in the street. The two men bolted for the van. The man in the jumpsuit pulled up suddenly as he noticed Gaby and Howard on the ground. He strode over to them.

  “Clay,” the bearded man said, “what are you doing?” “Insurance,” Clay said. He reached down and grabbed Gaby by the hair. She cried out as he yanked her to her feet.

  “We haven’t got time for this!” the bearded man yelled. “Come on, bitch,” Clay grunted.

  “No! No!” Gaby yelled. She kicked out at him frantically. He slammed her across the face with the barrel of the pistol.

  “Sonofabitch!” Howard gasped from the ground. He reached out and grabbed Clay around the ankles. Clay tried to pull away. Howard clutched tighter, groaning with pain. He dragged himself closer and wrapped both arms around Clay’s lower leg.

  “Get off me, nigger,” Clay shouted down at him.

  “Now . . . you’re . . . just makin’ me angry . . .” Howard mumbled. Clay snarled and pointed his pistol at Howard’s head.

  Anthony Wolf slammed into him like a linebacker on a quarterback.

  Clay lost his grip on Gaby. They went down in a tangle on the ground. Howard let go and rolled over, gasping. The bearded man stepped back and took aim, the gun barrel wavering, searching for a clear shot.

  “Put the weapon down!” a voice called out. Nathan Trent turned. Tim Buckthorn was down on one knee, his weapon trained on Trent’s head.

  Trent turned to the gunmen by the van. “Shoot him!” he screamed.

  They hesitated. Trent was between them and Buckthorn. If they fired, they risked hitting their leader.

  ANOTHER voice boomed out, harsh and electronically amplified.

  “POLICE! Don’t move! Weapons down!” The gunmen stood, frozen in shock, and used up the only chance they had of survival in the face of a dozen well-armed and terrified cops. Half a dozen police rifles fired in a ragged volley from deputies in tac gear who had taken position on either corner of the courthouse. Another half dozen blasted from hastily prepared positions in the shattered windows. The men in the street crumpled. Trent screamed and raised his own weapon. Buckthorn’s shot hit him full in the face and knocked him over backward. One biker reached down to pick up the weapon he’d discarded. A flurry of bullets cut him down. A pair of others tried to run and were shot down. A few tried to throw their hands up in surrender, but that time had passed and the killing fury was on the men behind the guns, just as it had been on the men now before them. They were shot down with the rest.

  CLAY had discarded his pistol. Nothing would satisfy his rage except to kill his enemy with his bare hands. His face was purple with fury as he locked his fingers around Wolf ’s throat and began to squeeze. Wolf gagged, his vision blurring from the lack of oxygen. He punched as hard as he could at Clay’s gut, but the two of them were too close together and the punches were too short to do any damage. He was losing. He was going to die. A voice came back to him. Ice, boy. Ice. Remember your training. He took both hands and placed his palms together as if he were praying. With a short, quick upward thrust, he drove his hands like a spear between Clay’s biceps, then spread his arms apart abruptly. Clay’s grip broke. Wolf brought his cupped hands together as hard as he could against Clay’s ears. Clay screamed with pain as an eardrum ruptured. He fell away.

  Wolf rolled to one side, gagging. He could hear the staticky roar of a police PA system, then the rattle of shots. He knew what it meant. He rolled over and looked at Clay writhing on the ground. “Hey, faggot,” he said, his voice sounding rusty and strangled. Clay rolled over, staring at Wolf with hatred in his eyes. “Sorry my wife killed your boyfriend Johnny,” Wolf taunted. “I know you were queer for him. Must suck to be killed by a girl, though.”

  One ear must have remained undamaged. Clay screamed and grabbed the gun. He got to one knee, then staggered to his feet. He raised the gun. A hail of bullets blew him off his feet. He crashed to the ground, his eyes still fixed on Wolf.

  Wolf got to his knees. He raised his hands above his head. “See,” he gasped, as the rage and the life faded from Clay’s eyes. “You get mad, you lose. You always lose.”

  BUCKTHORN STOOD as duane willis trotted up. He was dressed in a Kevlar vest and his black tac gear. “Sorry for the delay, sir,” he panted. “We got here as fast as we could.” A pair of EMTs had moved into
position and were crouched over the black man on the ground. He was unconscious but still breathing raggedly.

  “You did fine, Duane,” Buckthorn said. His voice was subdued. “We’re going to need some more EMTs, though.” He was looking at Nathan Trent’s body.

  Willis followed his gaze and grinned. “Don’t expect that fella’s gonna need an EMT, sir. Undertaker’s more likely.”

  Buckthorn looked at him for a moment, then smiled weakly. “Guess you’re right, Duane.” Suddenly he felt more tired than he ever had in his life. He walked unsteadily over to the courthouse steps and sat down.

  “You okay, sir?” Willis asked.

  Buckthorn waved him away. “I’m fine, Duane. Go on and secure the scene.”

  As Willis walked off, barking orders, Buckthorn looked back at Nathan Trent lying on the ground. Wolf came and sat down beside him.

  “Those the first men you ever killed?” Wolf asked after a moment.

  “Yeah. Haven’t had much call for it here.”

  “It was what you had to do.”

  “To protect the people I’m supposed to protect . . . yeah, it is. But it’s not something I want to get used to.”

  “Good.”

  “I guess it won’t come as any surprise . . . I want you out of my county, Mr. Wolf. Or Sanders. Or whatever the hell your name is.”

  “No problem,” Wolf said. “Sorry for all the trouble I brought you.”

  Buckthorn didn’t look at him. “Yeah, well, your saying you’re sorry don’t help me much. It don’t help me tell the wives and parents of a bunch of good deputies that their husbands and kids ain’t coming home. It don’t help me tell Travis Persons’s children the only thing they’re going to know about their daddy is the stories someone else tells. And it’s all because you brought your war here. You think your sorry’s gonna make that easier? For me or for them?”

  “No. But it’s all I’ve got.”

  “It ain’t enough. Now get out. And if I see you in this county again, I don’t care what name you’re using, I swear by sweet Jesus, I’ll see you in jail.”

  Wolf sat there for a moment before he got up. He started to walk away, then turned. “You think it wasn’t going to come here eventually?” he asked. Buckthorn didn’t answer. Wolf gestured at the tree-lined street. “It’s a nice town, Sheriff. Pretty. Nice people. But you’re drilling your men in antiterror tactics and meth interdiction. The last time I had time to sit on my porch and read the local paper, there were two main stories on the front page. One was about the new pastor at the Freewill Baptist Church, and the other was about your sheriff going to the county commissioners and asking for funds for a bomb-sniffing dog. Seems the drugsniffing dog you already have wasn’t properly trained to pick up explosives. This is the way the world is now, Buckthorn. No safe havens. We all might as well get used to that.” He turned and walked away. Buckthorn watched him go.

  AND THE award for best Investigative Report goes to . . .” The heavily made-up presenter paused dramatically while she opened the envelope. “Gabriella Torrijos, WRHO NewsNow, Raleigh, North Carolina.”

  The room erupted in applause, with one or two exceptions. One of those was a sullen-looking dark-haired man seated at the table from which Gaby had risen to make her way toward the dais.

  “I can’t believe it,” Brian Mathers muttered. “That story had no visuals. It was just some guy talking on tape. I had—”

  “Brian,” Michael Ellis snapped, “shut up.” He stood, as did the other reporters and producers around the table. All across the darkened ballroom, people were rising from their seats and applauding. Gabriella took the stage. She looked down at the podium, nervously shuffling a few index cards in one hand. Gradually, the applause died down.

  “Thank you,” she said softly as the room quieted. “First of all, I want to dedicate this award”—she gestured at the clear plastic statuette beside her on the podium—“to my videographer

  Howard Jessup.” She stopped and cleared her throat. There was a scattering of applause. “Howard’s got a long road of recovery still ahead of him. But I know he’ll make it. Because of all the brave men it’s been my privilege to meet . . .” Her voice caught for a moment, and she looked down. When she looked back up again, her voice was steadier. “Of all the brave men I’ve met, Howard Jessup is the bravest.” She picked up the award and held it up. “This is for you, Howard!” The applause was longer this time, and it went on for a full minute as she left the dais.

  After the ceremony, at the cocktail party, an ever-changing group swirled around Gaby. She accepted their congratulations and compliments with a professional smile. The smile slipped a bit when she took a flute of champagne from a red-jacketed waiter. She excused herself and followed him. She caught up with him in the outside service corridor.

  “If you’d let me know where you were,” she said, “I’d have sent you an invitation.”

  Tony Wolf smiled. “I got used to not letting people know where I am,” he said. He set the tray down on the floor and picked up one of the champagne flutes. “It got to be a habit. Anyway, congratulations.” He held out his glass to hers.

  “Thanks.” She clinked glasses with him, then touched the sleeve of the red waiter’s coat. “But why the masquerade?”

  “Like I said. Some things get to be a habit.”

  She laughed, a little uncomfortably, and took a sip of her champagne. “So how did things work out with your wife?”

  The smile vanished. “We’re not together.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No way you could have.”

  “No,” she said, “that’s not true. I could have followed up. But I moved on to the next story, and I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Things happen.”

  “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  The smile was back, this time sardonic. “Still trying to get the story? ‘Where are they now?’ ”

  “No,” she snapped. “I want to know because—” She stopped. “Never mind.” She took another sip. “You saved her life. You almost got yourself killed doing it.”

  Another shrug. “You can’t build a marriage on gratitude. Plus . . .” He took a deep breath. “No,” he said, almost to himself. “Leave it there.” He looked at her for what felt like a long time. Then he said, “She told me she didn’t know who I was anymore.” He looked away.

  “Ouch,” she said.

  He shrugged. “It’s okay. Sometimes neither do I. Occupational hazard.” He took the red waiter’s coat off and slung it over one shoulder. “I’d better be going,” he said. “The guy this belongs to has got to be getting pretty frantic about now. Congratulations again.” He started to walk away.

  “I think I do,” she blurted.

  He turned. “What?”

  “I think I know who you are. I think I saw who you are in that motel room when I was interviewing you. At least, I’d like to find out.”

  He stood there, regarding her. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Meaning first, you come back inside with me. We have a few drinks. We talk.”

  “Off the record?” “Totally off the record.”

  “Okay,” he said finally. “But you’re making a mistake.”

  “Maybe. I’ll deal with that if you’re right. But right now, get rid of that costume. Give that silly coat back to the man it belongs to, come in here, and have a drink. I have some friends I want you to meet.” She took his arm. “It’s time you broke cover for real.”

  Thanks as always to Scott Miller of Trident Media Group for excellent representation and sound advice. Thanks as well to my editor, Marc Resnick of St. Martin’s Press, for his enthusiasm.

  There are a lot of people this year who’ve helped me get the word out. They include (but are not limited to): Jon and Ruth Jordan of Crimespree Magazine; Stacey Cochran; Alexandra Sokoloff, Margery Flax, and the folks at Mystery Writers of America (you finally got me); Sarah Shaber of MWA’s Southeastern Chapte
r (and a damned fine writer her own self); International Thriller Writers; Joe Hartlaub of Bookreporter.com; Declan Burke; David J. Forsmark; Randy Johnson; Molly Weston; Anthony Rainone; Sandra Ruttan; Nathan Singer; Bob Morris; Zoe Sharp; Marshal Zeringue; Russ Heitz; Steve Allan; River Jordan; Josephine Damian; Joe Konrath; Dorothy Hodder; and James O. Born.

  For support and advice, I am also indebted to Lori G. Armstrong and to the Honorable Companions.

  Special thanks to my fellow bloggers at Murderati.com: Pari

  Noskin Taichert; Louise Ure; Ken Bruen; Robert Gregory Browne; Simon Wood; J. T. Ellison; and Toni McGee Causey. It is an honor to be included in this kind of company.

  Finally, thanks to my wife, Lynn. You keep it all together. Damned if I know how.

  Born and raised in North Carolina, J. D. Rhoades has worked as a radio news reporter, club DJ, television cameraman, ad salesman, waiter, attorney, and newspaper columnist. His weekly column in North Carolina’s The Pilot was twice named best column of the year in its division. The author of The Devil’s Right Hand, Good Day in Hell, Safe and Sound, Breaking Cover, Broken Shield and Devils And Dust, he lives, writes, and practices law in Carthage, NC. Follow him on Twitter at @jd_rhoades.

  Read on for an excerpt of

  the new thriller from J.D. Rhoades

  also available from Polis Books

  THE JEFE affectionately called him El Poeta—the Poet. It had nothing to do with literary talent; in fact, the man driving the truck was almost completely illiterate. The nickname was in honor of the man’s ability to curse. El Poeta was a virtuoso of invective. The jefe once said El Poeta could curse for twenty minutes and not repeat himself once.