Revenge Story

by Julia Broussard

  Every law enforcement officer within a twenty-mile radius of the Cherry Point refinery was now descending on the tank farm. At least twenty patrol cars had reached the parking lot, with officers fanning out carrying shotguns and pistols, ready to shoot the fugitives on sight.

  Ryan McKenzie pulled into the access drive to the refinery, flashed his ID at some of the officers standing around, and raced on toward the parking lot. When he got there, he jumped out and grabbed a shotgun from the trunk. He saw cops running around everywhere, but he seemed to be the first Federal agent on the scene. Grabbing one of the local cops by the shoulder, he pulled the man around to face him. “McKenzie! F.B.I. Where are they?” he yelled.

  “They’re out back in the tank farm! We’ve got guys trying to get around to the other side and cut them off!”

  “Thanks,” McKenzie started to leave.

  The local cop shouted at him. “Wait, sir!”

  “What is it?” said McKenzie.

  “Watch your background if you go in there! One wrong shot and you could send this whole place up!”

  “Got it!” McKenzie said. He sprinted toward the administration building. As he ran inside, he saw two gurneys being wheeled past him toward the front door. The sheets covering the bodies on the gurneys were soaked in blood. He didn’t have to ask the EMT’s what had happened. He already knew. Whenever people got in the way of Cummings or Morris, they usually ended up dead. The guys laying on the gurneys were just two more. When he got around the corner into the next hall, he almost ran into another one of the local cops.

  The young officer whirled around and pointed his pistol. “Freeze!”

  “Relax,” said McKenzie, raising his hands. “I’m F.B.I. Can I reach for my identification?”

  “Go ahead. Do it slowly.’

  McKenzie flashed his ID at the cop.

  “Okay. Sorry, sir. Everyone’s pretty jumpy. Those guys just killed three State Patrolman and two of our officers. There was a shootout at the Safeway. And they have grenades, sir. And what look like Army rifles.”

  “I know,” said McKenzie. “They have frag grenades and those rifles are fully automatic M-16’s. These two know how to use them, too. What’s the situation?”

  “Some State Patrol officers are working around the sides of the tank farm, trying to keep them penned in. No one’s taking any shots. Too much danger of fire. Shotguns only. That’s the order we got.”

  McKenzie stared out the windows out at the massive farm of round steel tanks and piping. “Yeah. Can you come with me?”

  “Well, I’m supposed to stay here and make sure they don’t try to cut back through the building this way.”

  “Never mind that,” said McKenzie. “I’m making you a Federal officer now, temporarily at least. Come with me.”

  As Jennie Walker and Carl Miller from KING News pulled up in their remote van with the big antenna on top, they saw dozens of police cars parked haphazardly inside and around the gates leading to the refinery. Every cop had a weapon in his hand. Some were working their way through the woods bordering the refinery; others were advancing up the driveway to the parking lot. An officer ran up to them and waved.

  “You can’t go in there!” he shouted at them. “Get out of here!”

  “What’s going on?” Jennie said.

  “We’ve got a couple of killers running around the complex. They’re heavily armed. They might even have explosives. Get the hell out of here.”

  Jennie put the van into reverse and drove back until the van rolled up onto the shoulder across the street. She looked over at Carl. “Okay. We’ll set up the remote right here,” she said. “The road’s closed off in both directions anyway.”

  “Let’s do it,” Miller said.

  While Ray Morris stood guard with his rifle, Ben finished securing the C-4 blocks and wrapping them with the detonation cord. The two men were crouched low in the middle of a system of pipes and valves connected to some of the oil storage tanks.

  Ray’s head was on a constant swivel, searching for anyone out on the tank farm looking for them. Occasionally he thought he spotted someone creeping around, but held his fire. “Hurry it up,” he said in a loud whisper.

  “Almost done.”

  “You really want to do this? We could get ourselves killed you know.”

  “There’s no other way,” said Ben.

  “How we will set it off?”

  Ben pointed to a spot on one of the C-4 blocks where he had wrapped the det cord around the block more than a dozen times. “We just shoot into the cord.”

  “Then what?”

  “Run like hell.” He pointed northwest. “Out toward the corner of this place. There’s some woods that way. It leads over to Birch Bay State Park. The marina’s about a mile up along the beach from there.”

  “You sure? I’m kind of lost,” said Ray.

  “I’m sure.” Ben finished with the explosives and picked up his rifle. “I wish it was dark,” he said. “They catch us out in the open and...”

  “Benjamin Cummings and Ray Morris!”

  Both men dropped to their bellies and searched for the source of the voice.

  “This is Special Agent Ryan McKenzie of the F.B.I.!” the voice called. “I can see you over there by those pipes! Stop whatever you’re doing and come out with your hands up!”

  “Fuck you!” Ben yelled back. “Come and get us, asshole!” He pointed over to another tank about fifty feet away. “See that? He’s right next to that one over there. See him?”

  “I see him,” said Ray.

  Shotgun pellets rattled against the pipes as McKenzie fired at them. “Come on out!” he shouted.

  “Let’s go,” said Ben. If he hits that det cord, he’ll blow us up along with everything else. When I say go, we run for it. When we get far enough away, I’ll shoot the cord.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hey, you stupid fed!” Ben said. “We got explosives over here. You want to send this whole place up? You better hold your fire!” He fired a shot from his pistol at the tank McKenzie was using as cover and ricocheted a bullet off the side of it.” He saw the F.B.I. agent duck back into cover. “I think there are two of them over there, Ray. Okay...let’s go.”

  As soon as they stood up, McKenzie stepped out from behind the tank and fired a blast from his shotgun, knocking both men off their feet.

  Ray jumped back up and fired off a burst in return at the agent, forcing him back again. He looked down at Ben, who was grimacing in pain and holding his side. Another shot came from a different direction. Ray spun around and saw some other officers moving in toward the sound of the shooting. He fired at them until the magazine was empty, and then crammed another one into the rifle. When he looked down again, he saw Ben’s face was ashen.

  “I’m done, man.” Ben said. “Get your ass out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” said Ray. He went to his knees and reached down to help Ben to his feet.

  Ben shoved his hand away. “Get the fuck out of here. Get back to your wife, man.” He pulled up his shirt to show Ray three holes the size of peas that were in his chest. “I’m fucking finished.”

  Ray spotted the F.B.I. agent peeking out from behind the oil tank. He raised the rifle and fired another burst. Bullets banged off the tank with a clang. The agent ducked back again. For the first time, Ray noticed that he had pain in his back somewhere. “I think I’m hit, too.” He reached behind him and his hand came away with some blood on it. “Shit.”

  “Go on,” said Ben. “Get out of here.” His voice was weak. “Hand me one of the grenades. Take the other forty-five under my coat and leave the rifle. It’ll just slow you down.”

  Ray dropped the M-16 and plucked the pistol from Ben’s shoulder holster. “Okay.”

  “Now run!” He pointed in the same direction as before. “Head that way until you make it to the beach. Go north and you’ll finally come to the marina. It’s maybe a couple of miles. Hope you make it there.”

 
“What about it, you two?” McKenzie shouted from his spot behind the adjoining storage tank. “Throw down your weapons and come on out!”

  “Fuck you, asshole!” Ben shouted.

  Ray put his hand on Ben’ shoulder. “Good luck, man.”

  “Yeah. Well, I got us into this; maybe I can get us out of it for good. Now get going.”

  Ray looked around to make sure he wasn’t seen, and then started to run between the tanks, staying as low as possible.

  Ben watched Ray’s escape for a few seconds, until Ray disappeared among the tanks and pipes. Rolling over onto his stomach, he took his last grenade and laid it within easy reach. Then he crawled as close to the C-4 package with the det cord as he could manage and tried to get a bit of cover. Taking out several blasting caps, he inserted them carefully into the C-4. Must be fifteen pounds of this shit stuck to these pipes, he thought. He reached out for his rifle and pulled it into his hands. He could see at least a dozen cops were now creeping up on him from three sides, seeking a clear shot. Won’t be long until the whole fucking cavalry arrives. “Cockroaches,” he mumbled. One of the cops exposed himself for a few seconds too long and Ben fired off a burst at him from the M-16. The cop stumbled backwards with a cry of pain and fell from sight.

  “How do you like me now?” he shouted. “You want us? Got to do better than that!” A thought flashed through his mind. “Stay down, Karen!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. Maybe they’ll think all three of us are still here, he thought. “Try to flank him, Ray!” He remembered it was something he saw in a movie once. A Steve McQueen film, he thought.

  Ben Cummings reached for the grenade. Pulling the pin, he kept a grip on the handle to prevent the fuse from igniting and then he held it up, looking at it as if it were a glass of wine. He rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. He saw a cloud that reminded him a bit of a lion’s head. He loosened his grip just enough to let the handle fly away from him and then jammed the grenade hard into the plastic explosive until it stuck. He closed his eyes and waited for the blast. He wondered how much of it he would see in the instant before he died.

  McKenzie strained his eyes in the afternoon light just enough to spot one of the fugitives holding a grenade over his head. Then he saw it. A huge wad of plastic explosive had been packed around one of the pipes near an oil tank. He jumped to his feet and practically dragged the local cop to his feet. “Run!” he shouted. “They’re blowing one of the tanks!” The two men bolted in the opposite direction.

  Chapter 16

  “It looks like the hunt for fugitives Benjamin Cummings, Ray Morris, and his wife Karen Morris may be coming to an end,” said Jennie Walker into the camera. “I’m outside the Cherry Point oil refinery in Lynden, Washington, where police have cornered all three fugitives inside the complex. Right now, we also have word that...”

  The explosion, and the blast wave that followed, threw both her and the cameraman to the ground. She struggled to a sitting position and looked toward the source of the blast. She saw a massive mushroom cloud rising from the refinery. It was followed by another, even larger blast. She screamed and covered her head.

  Carl Miller shoved his broken camera away and grabbed Jennie by the arm. “Let’s get out of here!” He lifted her by the armpits and practically threw her into the passenger seat of the remote van. Sprinting around to the other side, he jumped in and started the motor. But as he pulled away, he forgot that the microwave mast on the van was still extended. When he turned onto the street, the weight pulled the van over and it crashed onto its side. A few seconds later, he heard a third explosion, much smaller but also much closer. It was the fuel tank on the van catching fire. In seconds, the van was fully engulfed in flames. He kicked out the windshield with a single blow, grabbed Jennie by her hair, and dragged her out through the opening and up the street. She screamed bloody murder, which he ignored, and he didn’t stop dragging her over the pavement until they were fifty feet from the blazing vehicle. Then he collapsed to the ground next to her. Another booming explosion sounded from inside the refinery.

  Ryan McKenzie jumped to his feet a half-second after the blast knocked him to the ground. He pulled the local cop back to his feet by his shirt collar. Both men continued running as if the devil himself was nipping at their heels.

  The tanks were exploding! The first two concussions had knocked him off his feet, but by the time the third explosion sounded, Ray Morris was far enough away that the blast wave only pushed him along from behind. He risked a quick look back as he reached a small patch of woods near the northwest corner of the complex. Three huge fireballs had engulfed the center of the refinery and flames rocketed into the sky a thousand feet high. He could feel the heat on his face. Jesus, he thought. It’s like a nuclear war or something. He climbed over the fence and kept running toward the beach. He saw what might have been a cop a hundred yards off to his left, but the cop wasn’t looking at him. The cop was running, too – in the other direction.

  Cutting across a field, he made it back to the edge of the main road and ducked under a tree. He peered cautiously back up the road toward the entrance to the refinery. At least twenty police cars and several ambulances were there, but the cops were running around in confusion. A van was burning, and some of the police cars were retreating from the immediate area. Ray heard another explosion and watched in amazement as a fourth fireball reached high into the sky. This is it, he thought. This is my chance. He ducked low and ran across the road and toward the beach. The pain in his back from the shotgun wound was getting worse, but he tried not to think about it.

  A few hundred yards on, he came to another patch of woods and picked his way through the trees. He saw a foot trail, some picnic tables, and a carefully carved wooden sign: Birch Bay State Park. The smell of burning oil in the air was growing stronger as the fires at the refinery grew in intensity. They’ll have to evacuate everyone for miles around pretty soon, he thought. He saw a public bathroom and went inside. Peeking under the stall doors, he saw he was alone. He checked himself in the mirror. Except for some dirt streaks on his face, he looked presentable. As he bent over the sink to wash his face, a stab of pain shot down his right leg. He turned and saw that the back of his jeans were stained dark with his own blood. Pulling out his shirttail, he tried to turn and get a look at the shotgun wound in the mirror. He couldn’t see it clearly in the cheap mirror, but his fingers discovered a small hole in his lower back on his right side; about the size of a thumbnail. He tucked his shirt back in and cursed.

  He ran the sink tap and brushed water all over his jeans from top to bottom, to disguise the bloodstaining and to even up the color. When he was satisfied that he looked about as good as he could manage, he left the bathroom and headed up the trail toward the beach. He picked up a long stick of driftwood and used it to help him walk. His right leg was beginning to stiffen up and he was getting weaker. No one was on the beach. He passed a few homes, but saw no one around them either. He guessed that the families had either fled the area already, or they were out in front of their homes on the street side and checking out the fire. The blaze was bigger than any fire he had ever seen and black smoke poured out of the center like a storm born in the bowels of hell.

  He followed the beach until he rounded a bend and saw the marina ahead. Picking up the pace, he gritted his teeth against the pain in his back and kept moving. It seemed like forever before he reached a fence closing off the marina docks from the beach. He followed the fence up until he got to a gate, opened it, and went into the parking lot. At least a dozen boats were already either under sail or powering away from the marina at a fast clip, and for the first time he noticed ash was drifting to the ground. The smell of the smoke was growing more pungent each minute. He coughed, which caused another lightning bolt of pain to shoot down his leg.

  As he approached the docks, he saw Karen standing near the stern of a sloop. She was wearing the red wig and a pair of sunglasses. He waved. She jumped out of the boat and walked toward
him.

  They hugged each other.

  “What happened?” she said.

  “Ben’s dead,” he said.

  “The fire up there,” she said. “Was that you guys?”

  “Yes. He did it with the C-4. Some F.B.I. agent blasted him with a shotgun. He was dying. So he blew the whole damn place to hell just so I could have a chance to get away.”

  They walked toward the boat. “We’re ready to sail,” she said. “I picked up a case of bottled water, a first aid kit, a local chart, and a little food from the marina store. But that’s all I could get without drawing attention. We can pick up supplies in B.C.” She looked at her hands. They had blood on them. “What the hell?”

  “I took a shotgun pellet in the back,” Ray said.

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “I’ll be all right. Let’s get aboard. The Coast Guard might decide to shut down the marina soon. We’d better move out. Think you handle the boat alone?”

  “I think so.”

  Ray grimaced. “I hope so. I don’t feel too good. I have to lie down.”

  She pointed up the dock to another sailboat. Two men were out on deck tossing off lines. “See those guys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I talked to them. They’re taking their boat up to Victoria. We can follow them.”

  “Smart girl,” Ray said.

  “You better go below,” she said.

  More than thirty fire trucks were now onsite at the refinery, and over two hundred local, state, and assorted Federal officers. The death toll from the fire was already estimated at more than thirty people, most of them cops caught too close to the blast, plus a few employees at the refinery who hadn’t gotten out in time before the smoke engulfed them. The massive blaze lit up the sky for miles around.