Revenge of the Dog Team

by William W. Johnstone

  Peering around the corner of the shed nearer the house, Bryce glimpsed motion on the pavilion. It was Karl, who’d made his way east along the pavilion’s front edge, sheltering behind the stone staircase pillar to hide his movements. Now he was climbing over the balustrade, rifle in hand, in an attempt to flank Nevins and catch him unaware. Covering fire from Renna and Bennett kept Nevins busy and distracted.

  Blocking out all thoughts of pain and discomfort, Bryce asumed the shooting position on one knee, using the top of his bent left leg as a platform to steady his supporting bent left arm as he drew a bead on Karl and squeezed the trigger.

  The round tagged Karl as he was stepping over the top of the stone rail. His figure wavered, flopping over the rail onto the pavilion, the rifle clattering on the flagstones as it fell from his hands.

  He lay on his side, legs working like those of a dog dreaming that it’s running. Bryce put another round into him and he stopped moving.

  After a pause, Renna resumed firing at Bryce, streaming lead at him with both machine pistols. All to the same lack of effect as before. His bullets had already turned the toolshed into a wreck, but the ruin plus the machinery and equipment within formed a solid barrier to the slugs he rained down on Bryce.

  Nevins bided his time, waiting for Renna’s guns to empty. At the rate he was firing, the pieces must be red-hot. Nevins hoped the barrels would melt in the bastard’s lap.

  Renna’s guns fell silent. Nevins popped up, firing bursts not at Renna, but at the place in the garage where he figured Bennett was. Bullets ricocheted off the vehicles parked inside. Bennett would be pinned down under cover.

  Renna dodged back behind the loft wall to reload. Nevins stopped shooting at Bennett and fired into the wall at the place where he figured Renna would be. His initial onslaught at Bennett was just a feint to buy him the chance for a try at Renna.

  Holding down the trigger, Nevins sprayed the loft wall, ventilating it, emptying his clip. A yowling outcry, wild and wailing, sounded from the upper level.

  Nevins ducked down behind the metal cube in time to avoid the slugs Bennett threw his way.

  Renna staggered sideways, out from behind the wall and into the black square of the open hatchway. He gripped the door frame with one hand, holding himself upright. His other hand still held a machine pistol. He’d been hit, maybe more than once; his hunched form showed a piebald pattern of bloodstains. He vented a squalling shriek of near-unintelligible obscenities as he repeatedly jerked the trigger of an empty gun.

  Bryce popped a good, solid shot at Renna, drilling him through the middle. Renna wavered, shaky as a guttering candle flame. Losing his hold, he pitched forward from the waist, like he was taking a bow. Tumbling headfirst out of the loft, he fell into the yard with a crashing thud.

  Renna being out of the picture took a lot of heat off Bryce and Nevins. Taking the initiative, they concentrated their fire on the ground floor of the garage, where Bennett’s last shots had come from.

  Breaking glass sounded from the house behind Nevins. Before he had time to react, he was ripped through the back by a series of tremendous shattering blasts. He lived just long enough to realize that he was dead.

  Inside the house, Donny Piersall crouched beside the glassless window he had just broken and fired through to shoot Nevins in the back. Nevins had been so busy facing off with Renna and Bennett that he’d forgotten to protect his rear. Piersall had gone to the window nearest the outdoor air-conditioning unit behind which Nevins was sheltering, and put the blast on him at nearly point-blank range with a .357. The handgun was loaded with armor-piercing bullets that punched their way through Nevins’s flak jacket and into his spine and vitals.

  He pumped four slugs into Nevins, loving the way Nevins’s body jerked and spasmed under the impact. He threw the last two rounds at Bryce, but the other was farther away and he missed with both shots.

  He dodged back from the window, scrambling on hands and knees a half-dozen paces down the hall before Bryce returned fire, triggering a succession of short, quick bursts through the window from which the fatal shots had been fired. They tore up the hallway, but not where Piersall was. The corridor ran between the kitchen and the grand room with the fireplace and bar where he’d been with Mayhew when the shooting started.

  Piersall was using speed loads. Sitting on the floor with his knees bent and his back to the wall, he got rid of the empty cylinder and loaded a fresh one.

  Some sixth sense, instinct, caused him to look up just in time to see a stranger standing in a half crouch at the end of hallway nearest the kitchen, holding a chopped-down pump shotgun pointed at him.

  Not entirely a stranger. Piersall had seen him before, the man with the stiff, masklike face and the dark, intent, ever alert eyes, the man whose interest in Quentin and deadly skill in doing in Sandor and Vane had prodded Mayhew into forting up here at the Acres.

  That spark of recognition was just an aside, a stray thought flashing at the edge of Piersall’s awareness. His real attention, the center of his awareness, was focused on the shotgun bore leveled at him. That black hole was the biggest thing in all the world, bigger than life itself, as he discovered an eyeblink later.

  The blast pretty much blew apart most of Donny Piersall’s head. Tomorrow, a forensics team would be picking those gorgeous capped teeth of which he’d been so proud out of the ceiling.

  Bennett struck when Bryce started shooting at the house, trying to nail Nevins’s killer. Bennett took advantage of the opportunity to dash out of the barn garage into the yard, a pistol in each hand.

  Drawing abreast of the front of what was left of the toolshed, he dove for the ground, like a base runner sliding headfirst into home plate. He skittered across dust and stones on his belly, tearing up his underside but unaware of the pain in a rush of kill-fueled adrenaline.

  Bryce caught sight of him and started turning, swinging his rifle barrel toward the other. But Bennett was there first, sprawled flat on the ground, both arms extended, a gun in each hand, pouring a steady stream of slugs into Bryce.

  Reports pop-pop-popped away, muzzle flashes crowning Bennett’s gun barrels with rings of fire, underlighting his snarling face as he blasted. Bryce rocked under the impact as slug after slug struck home. His flak jacket protected him against some, but not the ones that struck his head, neck, and arms.

  The shooting stopped, followed by the merry little tinkling of the last of ejected brass casings raining down on the ground, sounding somehow like delicate wind chimes.

  Bryce sagged, slumping, the weapon slipping from his grip. Bennett triggered a few more blasts into the body, but he needn’t have; Bryce was done.

  Bennett rose, forearms and elbows scraped raw, shirt bunched up around his chest, belly all red and scratched, knees showing through torn pants. He looked like Robin Hood after a rough night in Sherwood Forest.

  In the house, a dull hollow boom sounded. Bennett didn’t know it, but that was Steve Ireland blowing Donny Piersall’s head off.

  A set of French doors crashed open; through them, a figure darted out on to the pavillion. Quick as a striking snake, Bennett swung his guns toward the disruption, nearly triggering them until he saw it was Mayhew running out of the house.

  Mayhew moved pretty fast for an old guy in his hunched, crabbed way. Not really running, but hustling in that quick-time jog that spry oldsters can sometimes generate in short bursts of activity.

  Scuttling across the patio to its far end, Mayhew lifted one leg over the stone balustrade, then the other. Hanging by his hands, he lowered himself to the ground, which was about three feet below the edge of the pavilion.

  Bennett started toward him, almost immediately stopping when a second figure emerged out the French doors onto the patio. Bennett didn’t know it was Steve Ireland, but he knew without conscious thought that this was an enemy. He and Steve caught sight of each other at the same time.

  Steve’s shotgun being empty, instead of pausing to reload, he had discard
ed it, drawing his pistol, the 9mm Beretta worn holstered at his side, after spotting Mayhew making his exit. Flashing to the patio, he saw Bennett. On the instant, they both started blasting at each other.

  Bennett fired first, a split second before Steve, but Steve’s aim was truer. Bennett missed; Steve tagged Bennett in the side, spinning him around. Bennett kept shooting, but his aim was off, wild. Steve put another into him. Bennett sat down hard on the ground, upper body weaving, gun hand at his side. A line of blood spilled out the corner of his mouth.

  Steve crossed the patio to the stone stairway on the west and started down the steps. Bennett coughed, his mouth spewing blood. He was still trying to raise his gun to bring it into play when Steve shot him dead center in the torso. Bennett flopped back, dead.

  Steve took a quick survey of the scene. Mayhew was nowhere in sight. Nevins was stone dead. Bryce’s heart still beat, its pulse slow and feeble as Steve pressed his fingertips to Bryce’s neck; even as he did so, the last of life flickered out of him and Bryce was gone.

  Shouts from the shoreline roused Steve’s attention. Mayhew was down at the pier, being helped across the dock toward the boat by a second figure. The second figure fired a few shots at Steve and missed. He was using a handgun, it was a long way off, and he didn’t even come close, missing by a country mile.

  Steve snagged Bryce’s assault rifle, oblivious to the patches of blood staining it. But the clip was empty; no good. He gave the pockets of Bryce’s utility vest a quick rummaaging, coming up with a spare clip.

  The boat’s engines started up, chortling, sputtering, then catching. It sounded like a power lawn motor being fired up, only louder. Steve locked and loaded the clip, starting down the pathway toward the pier even as the boat began edging out into the bay.

  It was up to Mantee now. Steve pulled the communicator from an inside vest pocket, unfolding the transceiver, inserting the earpiece, and switching it on. He didn’t know whether it would work or not, these high-tech gizmos were fluky and had a tendency to fail when the party got rough. But it hummed with power, the audio bud buzzing tinnily in his ear.

  Mantee’s speedboat had been lurking on the far side of the cove’s west arm. The moon was high, spilling its radiance though a scattering of thin, wispy clouds. The waters of the bay were as hard and shiny black as anthracite coal, save where it was silvered by moonbeams.

  The speedboat swung into view, rounding the tip of the cove’s western limb as it moved to intercept Mayhew’s cabin cruiser.

  Steve spoke into the transceiver. “This is Eye. Our primary’s on the boat.”

  “I’ve got him,” Mantee said.

  Steve shut up. Mantee didn’t need any distractions now. Inside the house, the alarm system continued its damned wheep-beeping.

  On the cabin cruiser, Mayhew took the wheel, piloting the boat. He looked as gaunt as the Ancient Mariner of poetry fame, only with a better haircut and a shave. He felt worse, but he knew in his bones that his time was not yet, that he’d pull through again.

  He’d had his doubts only moments ago, during that final frantic scramble down to the dock. Good thing he kept himself in some kind of condition with daily workouts; otherwise, he’d never have made it. Even so, he’d been failing there at the end; he’d have dropped sure if not for the intervention of Tyrone.

  Tyrone was one of Piersall’s people, part of his Black Glove Crew. He’d been posted down at the dock to keep watch for anybody trying to approach by water. When the shooting started, he’d remained at his post, careful not to mix in any of the shooting. Tyrone was a yellow belly when you came right down to it, but it had all worked out for the best as far as Mayhew was concerned.

  By the time he’d reached the pier, Mayhew was played out. It was like the dream where life itself depends on being able to flee some deadly menace, only no matter how hard you try, you’re unable to do more than creep along at a snail’s pace while the foe swoops down on you with swift wings. But this was no dream, it was all real, horribly real.

  His limbs numb, impossibly heavy, barely capable of movement, he’d stumbled to the dock, ready to collapse. He’d feared he was having a heart attack. He had no history of cardiac trouble, but there was always a first time and this looked like it. Old age was hell, but Mayhew was determined to hold on to it with a death grip.

  Then Tyrone had been there, getting Mayhew’s arm across his shoulder and propping him up. Half carrying, half dragging him, he’d rushed Mayhew across the dock and up the gangway into the boat. By then, Mayhew had recovered enough breath to sob out instructions to Tyrone to free the mooring lines. Tyrone had cast them off while Mayhew fired up the boat’s powerful twin engines. They’d been kept in tune for just such a getaway and by God, now they were paying off!

  Tyrone was no sailor, and there wasn’t much he could do except hover over Mayhew and lend a hand to keep him from falling over while he skippered the craft. Then they were under way, dock and shoreline receding as the black waters of the bay widened and deepened.

  It was Tyrone, though, who first noticed the quick, jaunty little speedboat that swung into view, carving a curved white wake as it skipped across the surface, moving to cut them off. He’d pointed it out to Mayhew.

  Mayhew, heedess, reckless, was determined to be halted by no man now, not with escape so close. If necessary, he’d run down the smaller craft with his own much larger boat, ramming and sinking it to the bottom.

  He didn’t know that Mantee’s speedboat was armed with a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted over the front coaming, and that even now he was preparing to open fire. First, with a warning volley across the cruiser’s bow; if that was ignored, he’d shoot it so full of holes that it’d sink like a stone.

  Only Mantee didn’t have to fire a shot. For, even as he was racing to intercept it, the cabin cruiser blew up.

  One instant, it was there; the next, it disintegrated in a cloud of smoke and fire that raised a waterspout and rained a hail of debris. An occurrence that puzzled the hell out of both Steve Ireland and Mantee.

  On shore, in the mansion, now that the guns had fallen silent, Elise Danner finally summoned up enough nerve to crawl out of the closet where she’d been cowering since the shooting started. Creeping down the grand staircase, she eased open the front door and fled into the night, running across the fields toward the distant roadway.

  In the Klondike SUV lurking at the edge of the property, on guard for some such eventuality, Osgood caught her.

  EIGHT

  “You’re going on a train ride.”

  The way Doc Wenzle had said it, with the purr of genially malicious relish in his voice, had tipped Steve Ireland that his next assignment would be no picnic.

  Now, Steve knew that his worst apprehensions had fallen far short of the reality. He was on board a train rolling west through the Maryland countryside at midday, a freight train whose cargo was a hell’s brew that could wipe out an army, or an entire city. Long, narrow windows on either side of the car let in light and landscape. The view was nice—a rural vista of open fields, rushing streams, and gentle vistas—but he was in no mood to appreciate the scenery. He suspected that Osgood and Mantee shared his feelings.

  The three of them shared their own private car, not a passenger car but a crew car, the kind used by freight train personnel on long-distance, cross-country runs. It was a combination living quarters, working area, and storage space. Its stripped-down styling reminded Steve of a mobile home or a recreational vehicle. It had the same spare, stark efficiency of design, everything pared down to its essentials.

  The forward part of the long, tubelike car held the living area. There was a communal work space, a kind of galley or mini-kitchen, some sets of fold-out bunks built into the walls, even a lavatory, all built around an open central aisle. A bulkhead separated it from the rear, storage area.

  Steve, Osgood, and Mantee now occupied the common work space. Hinge-mounted seats and a desktop made of lightweight, composite materials folded ou
t from berths in the walls. The desktop was equipped with safety catches and clips to secure laptops and other movable gear from the hazards of train travel, from vibrations to sudden stops. Steve sure hoped that the train would make no sudden stops. He wasn’t too thrilled about its making any scheduled stops either.

  Radio was the voice of the train, both for on-board and outside communication. A built-in radio/scanner was switched on at a moderate volume, allowing the Dog Team trio to monitor the extensive signal traffic between the crew and the railroad’s extensive traffic control network that kept the train on course through all its myriad junctions and switching points. Not to mention the numerous auxiliary units involved in assisting the transport’s smooth and uninterrupted progress, including the forward scout vehicles, helicopters, and spotter planes, and various local, county, and state police agencies watching for trouble along the line.

  Steve, Osgood, and Mantee had also each been issued radio handsets identical with those used by the train crew and its defenders. In addition, they each had their own individual cells for Team commo, among themselves or with handlers such as Doc Wenzle. Of course, Wenzle was safe back in his office in D.C., not riding the rails with a toxic cargo, Steve thought sourly.

  The trio also had several transceiver headsets similar to those used on the raid two days ago on Arnot’s Acres, but those comm units were currently stowed away with much of the rest of their gear.

  They were all dressed in civilian clothes, casual clothes and workboots to conform with their cover. Under his utility vest, Steve wore a shoulder harness with his pistol facing butt-outward under his left arm. A neat, flat little .32 was clipped to a holster at the small of his back. The weather was warm, summery; under the vest he wore a short-sleeved shirt, with a long, thin, flat-bladed stiletto-type knife worn in a sheath behind the back of his neck, hanging down between his shoulder blades.

  Osgood and Mantee were similarly armed with handguns and whatever additional equalizers they favored. Neither of them had Steve’s facility with a blade. Osgood carried a set of brass knuckles while Mantee toted a sap, a leather mini-truncheon whose interior was filled with ball bearings.