The Short Drop

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  Tinsley studied the battlefield. In a direct exchange of small-arms fire, he would die. That was undisputable. His Sig Sauer was a fine weapon, but it was no match for seven trained men. Five with assault rifles.

  He knew, however, how to neutralize their advantage.

  Rising out of the shadows, Tinsley hugged the tree line, slipping out of cover a few feet from the rear SUV. One man stood on each side of the vehicle behind an open door. The engine was running, masking Tinsley’s footfalls on the white stone driveway. It helped that their focus and their rifles were trained on the confrontation with Charles.

  Tinsley took the first man in a single practiced sweep of his knife. Blood splashed the window. He lowered the man to the ground into a sitting position to die.

  Tinsley looked through the open doors of the SUV to the other man, who glanced back at the same instant. For a moment, they stared each other in the eye. Then the man was twisting, trying to bring his rifle to bear, but it was unwieldy in the cramped space between the door and vehicle.

  Tinsley lowered the knife and asked the time.

  “What?” the man asked as if he hadn’t heard Tinsley correctly.

  It was a strange question under the circumstances, and that strangeness slowed the man a fraction. It was enough. Tinsley shot him in the neck, the suppressor sounding a hollow rattle in the SUV’s interior, and the man went down clutching the ruins of his throat.

  Tinsley checked to see if the exchange had drawn unwanted attention, but all eyes remained on the standoff unfolding on the porch. It was tense, like unlit kindling. It needed a spark to make it catch. Tinsley took up the dead man’s rifle and fired several bursts over Jenn Charles’s head.

  The effect was instantaneous.

  Charles reacted first. She slid to her left, dropping as she fired twice at the man claiming to be FBI. The man tumbled backward and stayed down. His partner returned fire, but Charles disappeared behind the car. There were gunshots from the open doorway of the house, and the second man threw himself to the ground and crawled toward his fallen partner.

  Automatic-weapons fire erupted from all sides. The rifles were all suppressed and, judging by the sound, loaded with subsonic ammunition. Charles was correct. These men were not the FBI.

  The car Charles was hiding behind exploded in a firework of broken glass and metallic shards. Bullets crashed into the side of the house, battering the front door of the house and flinging it wide. Tinsley heard a man yell in pain.

  Tinsley watched the partner of the fallen man circle the car and take his partner by the collar, dragging him back behind a large elm in the center of the circular driveway. Charles returned fire as best she could but was effectively pinned down. There was no other movement from the house. Tinsley wondered if she had sacrificed herself to buy her compatriots time to flee out the back.

  That would not be ideal.

  Movement drew Tinsley’s eyes. The man flanking Charles had spotted him. Bullets laced past, and Tinsley threw himself into the SUV, scrambling low across the seats as the armored door absorbed a burst of rounds. The sound of the running engine stopped him. He sunk down below the dashboard, shifted it into drive, and stomped down on the accelerator. The SUV leapt forward. Rounds thudded into the engine block. White circles like cigarette burns popped in the windshield above Tinsley’s head. He held the accelerator to the floor.

  The SUV caught the shooter square with a meaty impact and dragged him into the woods. The SUV hit two trees simultaneously, lifting the rear axle off the ground as it wrenched to a halt.

  His nose bleeding and right knee injured, Tinsley disappeared into the trees before the air bag had finished deflating.

  Bullets punched holes through the walls above Gibson’s head. He stumbled backward and fell to the floor behind the cover of the bathtub.

  Billy was frozen, hugging the toilet like it was a life preserver. Gibson crawled over and shoved him roughly around so that the toilet was between him and the gunfire. That and the bathtub would give them some short-term protection, but he needed to get Billy out of there.

  Billy begged Gibson not to leave him.

  “I’ll be right back,” he promised.

  He moved low out of the bathroom. The hallway was covered in debris and broken glass. He scuttled down the hall to the front door. Hendricks was sprawled out on the floor. It looked like the front door had cracked Hendricks in the forehead, splitting the skin from the bridge of his nose to his hairline. The wound was bleeding heavily. Gibson checked for a pulse—it felt strong and regular.

  He dragged Hendricks farther from the open door and patted him down. A thick key ring was in a hip pocket. He took the keys along with Hendricks’s gun and crab-walked back to the bathroom, where he fumbled through the keys, unlocked the handcuffs, and motioned for Billy to follow him.

  Together, they crawled down the hallway back to Hendricks. The automatic-weapons fire had slowed, becoming more deliberate. There was a thunderous crash away from the house. A car horn rang out. It took him another moment to realize that the crash had momentarily halted the gunfire.

  He gestured for Billy to drag Hendricks farther back into the house.

  Gibson glanced out the door and into the dark. A round snapped past his ear. One of the SUVs had driven off into the woods. The other SUV’s headlights had been shot out. He could see Jenn crouched behind the car, but no one else. Billy said something behind him.

  “What?”

  “Floodlights,” Billy said again.

  Gibson pointed to a panel of light switches above his head. Billy nodded.

  Not a bad idea. He knocked on the doorframe to get Jenn’s attention. They made eye contact. He showed her the gun, gestured for her to come to him, then held up three fingers. She nodded, and he counted down with his fingers. On zero, he threw all the switches at once. Powerful halogens lit up the driveway like high noon. In the glare, he saw two men back by the SUV and another behind the elm tree in the circular driveway, kneeling beside a body.

  Where were the others?

  As the lights came on, Jenn was up and moving swiftly. Gibson emptied Hendricks’s gun in suppressing fire over her head. Jenn slid into the house, and he kicked the door shut behind her.

  The men out front started shooting out the floodlights, plunging them back into darkness.

  They moved deeper into the relative safety of the house, huddled around Hendricks, and regrouped. Jenn shifted and helped her partner into a sitting position, shaking him gently as he came to. She brought Hendricks up to speed while he tried to clear his head and wipe the blood out of his eyes. Gibson offered him his gun back.

  Footsteps pounded up onto the porch, and something solid hit the floor in the living room. Jenn anticipated it.

  “Open your mouth, cover your eyes and ears!” she ordered.

  Hendricks reacted automatically. Gibson and Jenn were already curling their heads down into their knees. Gibson yelled at Billy, but he only gaped at them in confusion.

  The flash-bang went off in the hallway, but Gibson still felt the change in air pressure in his skull. It was like a car alarm pressed to his ears. He could see and he could hear, if only barely. Billy had taken the brunt and curled into a writhing ball by the time the shooting started.

  Gunfire rattled over the radio. Titus stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at the radio as if he could see what was happening. Calista, brow furrowed, kept asking, “What’s happening? What’s happening?”

  No one answered her.

  It was hard for George to piece together. Several Cold Harbor operatives were down. Of that much he was sure. One was screaming incoherently for his life. Bedlam. He smiled grimly to himself. Jenn Charles and Dan Hendricks had not gone gentle into that good night.

  “Breach,” a voice said clearly over the confusion.

  Two detonations occurred simultaneously. The blo
od drained from Calista’s face.

  “Flash-bangs.” Titus began pacing back and forth, cursing under his breath as the pitched battle moved inside the house.

  Cold Harbor was losing.

  “There’s someone else here! Shoot him! Shoot him! What the…” The voice was swamped by a wet gurgle. Nothing coherent followed.

  “Tinsley,” Calista whispered to herself. “Oh, dear God.”

  She took out her phone and dialed frantically.

  Titus snatched up the radio and demanded a sitrep from someone. “What is your status? Report! Over!”

  Titus caught George’s eye and didn’t like what he saw. He drew his sidearm and stalked over, leveling it at George’s face.

  “No,” Calista said.

  Titus stopped and glared at Calista. “What?”

  “We may need him.”

  “The plan was—”

  “The plan was your team was competent,” Calista interrupted. “Now I need a new plan.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  It was fifty miles before Gibson eased off the accelerator, slowing to seventy miles an hour. He drove with one eye on the road ahead and one eye behind, studying the darkness for any sign that someone had followed them. His ears were still ringing.

  The brim of Bear’s Phillies cap was low over his eyes. His head had been the safest place for it in the confusion, but now the cap felt oddly comforting. In the chaos, he’d managed to grab it along with Bear’s book. Billy’s gun rested under Gibson’s right thigh. Gibson still wasn’t clear how he’d gotten clear without getting shot. It had been a good old-fashioned turkey shoot.

  He had no idea if Jenn or Hendricks were alive. They’d been separated during the firefight, and for all he knew they were captured or dead. He didn’t like leaving them, but Billy had taken one to the stomach and needed a hospital. Gibson had fireman-carried him out of the house to the car, expecting with each staggering step a bullet that never came.

  He pulled the Cherokee off at an exit and found an abandoned gas station that looked as if it had been closed for years. He shut off the engine but left Hendricks’s keys dangling from the ignition. Sitting in the shadow of the station’s awning, he looked back the way they had come and listened to the wet rasp of Billy’s breathing.

  In the dim glow of the streetlights, Gibson could see Billy’s face, pale and beaded with sweat. Billy coughed what looked like black tar onto his chin. Gibson wiped it away and saw that Billy’s shirt and pants were soaked through with blood. Billy murmured something inchoate. He had drifted in and out of consciousness since the mad scramble back at the house but hadn’t spoken a lucid word.

  He had to get Billy to a hospital, but first he needed to know they hadn’t been followed. The dashboard dinged noisily when he opened his door. Billy’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist.

  “You know where you’re going next?” Billy asked.

  “Yeah, I have a pretty good idea.”

  “I knew you’d figure it out. Will you do something for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “When you find her, will you tell her about me?”

  “Hey. Don’t start on a hero trip now. As soon as it’s safe we’re going to a hospital. You’re alive, and you’re going to stay that way.”

  “I’m glad I met you. It was good to tell someone.”

  “The privilege was mine, Billy. Now shut up and sit tight. I’m going to be right back.”

  “Okay.” Billy smiled through the pain.

  Pulling the hat low over his eyes, Gibson walked out to the road. He didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t make him feel safe. How long could he wait, though? Billy needed a surgeon.

  He took out his phone. It was a risk; the phone might be how Jenn and Hendricks had tracked him to the lake house, but he saw no alternative. He powered it up—one bar. He moved across the parking lot, hunting for a better signal. He settled for three bars. Hendricks would have simply known, but Gibson needed to search for the nearest hospital. He found one eight miles from here, memorized the route, and made the call he’d been dreading. He didn’t want to scare her unnecessarily, but he couldn’t avoid it now.

  “You wouldn’t believe how hot it is here,” he said when she answered.

  “Say that again?” Nicole asked.

  “You wouldn’t believe how hot it is here.”

  “How hot is it?”

  “One hundred and ten.”

  “What’s the heat advisory?” she asked.

  “Find shade.”

  She was quiet for a moment, then, “Well, try to stay cool.”

  “Tell her I love her.”

  Nicole hung up without another word.

  It was their old code from when he’d been in the service. It meant there was a legitimate terrorist threat to DC, and she needed to get to safety. Calls home were monitored for key words and phrases, so a lot of guys had a way to warn family.

  Nicole would take Ellie to her uncle’s hunting lodge in West Virginia. She’d be on the road in less than fifteen minutes and would stay off the grid until she heard from him. He’d never had to use it while he was in the service. He was grateful now that she still respected him enough to trust him and not ask questions. Although if he survived all this, he knew he would have many to answer.

  The road was still deserted in both directions, so he made another call. It was a number he hadn’t dialed in over a decade; he couldn’t recite it, but his fingers knew it. He just prayed it was still good.

  A young boy answered. Gibson asked for his aunt. The boy set the phone down roughly and ran off, yelling “Mom.”

  A woman picked up. She sounded just the same.

  “Hello, Miranda.”

  “Gibson? Is that you?”

  They talked for a few minutes. He told her what he needed. She wasn’t sure if she still had it but promised to look.

  “If I have it, there’s only one place it would be,” she said.

  They set a time and place to meet. He thanked her and hung up. That had gone better than he could reasonably have hoped. He tried Jenn’s number, but it went straight to voice mail. He contemplated leaving a message, but he couldn’t be sure her phone hadn’t been taken. Instead, he hung up and pulled the SIM card and shattered his phone against the side of the gas station. If it hadn’t been compromised already, it soon would be.

  Anyway, there wasn’t anybody left for him to call.

  He walked back around to the SUV, calculating how long a drive it was to Charlottesville. He could get away with driving at night, but come dawn the bullet holes in the car would lead to unpleasant questions. The passenger door stood open; Billy was gone. Bloody footprints crossed the parking lot and disappeared at the edge of the broad field that backed the gas station. After ten yards he lost the trail. He called out to Billy in the dark. Not even the wind answered.

  Gibson studied the horizon to the north but realized he couldn’t be sure which direction Billy had gone. He searched the field in the dark, yelling Billy’s name to the uncaring night.

  He went back to the Cherokee. There comes a point when every man must choose his own way. Billy had made his choice, and Gibson hoped he could live with it.

  His was Charlottesville.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  When daylight came, Gibson pulled off at a motel that advertised “Clean Rooms” on a hand-painted sign. He parked in the back, away from the main road, and got a room. He paid cash for two nights, even though he only intended to be there until that evening. He put his clothes in the tub to soak the blood out of them and took a shower, stomping his clothes like an old-fashioned wine press until blood leaked out of them, swirling down the drain. He stood under the scalding water until his skin was pink like a newborn’s.

  He slept hard. When the need to urinate woke him, he hung his clothes to
dry on the shower bar. When he woke for good, it was late afternoon. It felt like he’d been asleep for a five count, not ten hours. He took another shower to wash the sleep off and put his clothes back on. It was an improvement, but you could still see the bloodstains. He turned his shirt inside out. That helped some. Now he just looked like an idiot.

  A mile down the road, he stopped at a discount clothing store in a tumbledown strip mall. He bought a pair of jeans and two shirts. He wore them out of the store and threw his old clothes in the trash. At a hardware store he bought a claw hammer. He drove on until he found a secluded turnoff. He took the hammer to the bullet holes in the side of the SUV. It looked a lot worse when he was done, but they didn’t look like bullet holes.

  Charlottesville had changed in the ten years he’d been gone, but at the same time it hadn’t changed a bit. Not in ways that mattered. It was still first and foremost a university town. Distinctly southern and proud of its heritage and traditions, it was also young, vibrant, and easygoing—the best of both worlds, in Gibson’s opinion. He drove into town on Route 29, which became Emmet Street once it crossed Route 250. The university rose up to greet him. New buildings dotted the campus, but it was familiar all the same. Part of him wanted to park and take a walk through Grounds, part of him wanted to take a detour to the White Spot for a Gus Burger, and part of him wanted to turn the car around and get out of there. It wasn’t that he had made a conscious decision never to come back, but somehow he’d always found a reason to be elsewhere.

  Distracted by memories, he missed his turn on University Avenue. Rather than make a U-turn, he took Jefferson Park Avenue around, picking up West Main on the far side of Grounds. School was out, and, as in the summers of his childhood, Charlottesville was slumbering, worn out by a long school year and trying to catch up on its sleep before twenty thousand students began returning in a few weeks.

  The white brick exterior of the Blue Moon Diner came up on his right faster than he remembered. He pulled into the narrow parking lot that ran alongside the building and sat for a minute in the simmering dark.