Foster got back to his feet, swinging his bullhorn like a club. Gunshots popped all around him as his officers tried to maintain the line and close ranks. The crowd grew more savage in return. Reese watched in horror as a cop went down under a hail of broken glass, pounced on by people slashing and stabbing with reckless abandon. More gunshots rang out, this time coming from the crowd. They weren’t all unarmed.
The mob surged around the cops, as if it had forgotten its original purpose of gaining entry to the store. It seemed intent on eradicating the peace officers. Reese was carried along like a leaf on a stream, and in moments was within reach of the chief.
Foster barked orders at his men, and one of them produced a shotgun. Leveled at the onrushing attackers, the sight of the open maw gave them pause. But they were pushed forward by people in the rear of the crowd and renewed the onslaught. Bottles, rocks, and the odd piece of lumber sailed through the air, striking just as many rioters as cops.
Reese ducked a flaming bottle that exploded on the ground behind Chief Foster. Somewhere across the parking lot, he heard Jo yelling his name, but when he turned to look, someone smashed into him and almost knocked him to the ground. He would have fallen had he not in turn smashed into yet another rioter, keeping them all upright.
Through a gap in the flailing arms and improvised weaponry, Reese spotted Chief Foster grappling with a large man. The man had both huge hands wrapped around the bullhorn. Reese had no doubt the assailant had enough strength to bludgeon Foster to death with the bullhorn if he got it clear. Without thinking, Reese charged forward, hands outstretched.
From his right, a bloodcurdling cry erupted. Reese pivoted to intercept the attacker, then realized too late the man had no intention of going after anyone but Chief Foster. He raised his left arm, brandishing a long knife that flashed in the arc lights. Holding it like an ice pick, the man plunged down, right at Foster’s back.
Reese yelled out in warning, but his voice was lost in the din of the riot. There was no time to do anything else but try to tackle the man with the knife. Reese launched himself forward and prepared for the impact. He clenched his teeth and lowered his head, slamming his right shoulder into the man’s side. Just before impact, he saw Foster, and his eyes went round.
Then Reese slammed into the attacker with a bone jarring impact that knocked the air from his lungs. The knife flashed in the air, they tumbled in a knot of arms and legs, and Reese kissed the pavement. A searing pain coursed through his shoulder, like someone had dipped it in lava. A sound like thunder erupted in his ears, something wet and warm covered his eyes—the world went black.
Reese rolled away from the man he’d tackled, his shoulder in agony and his face smeared with—his trembling left hand cleared it away and he could see again—blood. It was blood, and it was everywhere—his hands, his arms, his face, the ground.
Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, and Reese cried out in pain, struggling to free himself.
“Easy! We got you, hang in there, mister,” a rough voice said in his ear. Whoever it was dragged him away from the wall of attackers, now finally held at bay by three officers with shotguns.
“Alright, that’s enough!” roared Chief Foster over the ruckus.
“This ain’t over!” someone in the front yelled, snarling.
Foster drew his sidearm and placed the barrel against the man’s forehead. “Another word, and it’ll be over for you.” The agitator’s face went slack and his eyes tried to focus on the black semi-automatic pistol pressing into the skin above his nose. “I said, that’s enough,” Foster repeated.
The cops with shotguns pressed forward, driving the crowd back until they were abreast of their chief. All of them had cuts to the face and blood smeared on their uniforms. Chief Foster more so than others—the man’s uniform top was in ribbons and his left eye was almost swollen shut while blood leaked from the side of his head. Though his hat was askew, Foster’s eye radiated determination, and his mouth set in a grim line.
“No one is getting past my men tonight, so just go on home. That. Is. An. Order.” He pushed forward, and the man under his pistol staggered back, a red welt on his forehead.
Reese got to his feet and leaned on a squad car, waiting for the violence to continue, but no one made another move. Those in the back of the crowd melted away into the darkness, leaving those at the front exposed. More than one head turned to see they were alone, and just like that, it was over. The mob dissolved in front of him and Chief Foster was left in command of the parking lot and a dozen bodies, bleeding into the asphalt and debris. He lowered his sidearm and his shoulders slumped forward. Leaning on one of his men, he limped over to the car Reese leaned against and nearly collapsed on the hood.
Jo rushed up and shoved a cop out of the way. “Move it, junior, or I’ll take that gun from you and shove it up your—”
“It’s alright, Murray, she’s okay,” Foster said, raising himself up on one bloodied arm.
“But—” began Murray.
“Stow it,” Foster snapped, pulling himself upright. “Her friend there took a knife for me and probably saved my life. Let her tend to the man.”
“Great googleymoogley,” Jo muttered, examining Reese’s arm. “All this blood…where are you cut?” she asked, feeling her way up his forearm.
“It’s his shoulder, ma’am,” Glivens said, appearing at Reese’s side. “I saw it—he body checked that guy,” Glivens reported, pointing at a corpse about ten feet away. The bloody knife lay just a few feet from the man’s outstretched hand. “Dude tried to plant that knife in the chief’s back and your friend took it in the shoulder instead.”
“Bless your heart, you surely did,” Jo said, sucking air through her teeth. She slipped an arm out of her pack and dropped the mud-splattered first aid supplies on the hood next to Reese. Keeping one hand on his shoulder, she dug through the bag and produced a wicked-looking pair of angled scissors, then set to work cutting the sleeve off his shirt. “Hold still now,” she muttered, bringing the scissors close to his wound.
Reese tensed and closed his eyes. “Don’t let her take my arm.”
Chief Foster guffawed and slapped his hat on the hood next to Jo’s medical kit. “You’re alright, mister.”
“It’s Reese. Reese Lavelle.”
Foster lost his laughter and cleared his throat. “Listen, I’m not any good at this kind of thing.” He turned and looked at the bodies. “I’ve never even drawn my weapon before—let alone caused the death of a dozen people…”
“You didn’t have a choice—they were out for blood,” Reese said, wincing at Jo’s probing fingers. “Ow! Why are you digging—”
“Oh, quit yer bellyaching, you big baby. It’s just a scratch.”
“Just a scratch? It feels like my arm’s about to fall off!”
Foster leaned over the hood and squinted at Reese. “If that’s just a scratch, I’d hate to see your idea of a deep cut.” He looked Reese in the eye. “Seriously, you just saved my life. I owe you. Thanks.”
Jo dug a finger in Reese’s wound, making him groan with pain. “Okay, okay,” he said over his shoulder. “Chief Foster,” he added, turning back to the wounded policeman. “Can I ask a favor?”
The chief sighed. “Go ahead. You’ve earned it. I doubt those rabble rousers will be back before we get reinforcements. What can I do for you?”
“Let me and my friends buy some supplies from the Walmart.”
Jo paused in her not-so-tender ministrations and leaned around Reese’s shoulder to watch the interaction.
Foster rubbed a hand through his sweaty hair and looked down. “I suppose it’s a small price to pay for seeing another day. Alright,” he said, looking up at Reese. “You and your friends can stay the night and help me keep order until dawn. Then you can all load up—free of charge.”
“But—” Reese protested.
Foster held up a hand. “I insist. You saved my life, Lavelle. Let me do this. You wanna hang around a few more hour
s, you can have free run of the store. Sound good?”
“Does it sound good?” Jo parroted. “Does the sun rise in the east? Yeah, it sounds—”
“It’s a fair deal,” Reese said, evenly. He tried to reach out his right arm and clenched his teeth against the pain. Forster stuck out his left hand, and Reese grabbed it. Awkwardly, they shook on the deal.
“Ahyup,” Foster said, stepping back. “Made a right mess of things, though. Glivens, what’s the status on clean up?”
“I’ve called for the medics. Should be here any second.”
“Chief?” asked another cop, walking up with the bloodied kitchen knife in his hand. “I thought you might want this, since you know, the guy tried to kill you with it. You want me to put it in evidence?”
Foster considered the knife for a moment, then shook his head. “Lavelle, you don’t have a weapon, do you?”
“No, sir. My gun collection’s still in South Carolina. I hope.”
Foster grimaced. “Well, I’d say you earned this one. Call it the spoils of war.” He nodded, and the cop turned the bloody blade around and offered it to Reese handle first.
Reese took the knife in his left hand and looked at the red-smeared blade. It was his blood.
“Lemme see that,” Jo said, holding out a hand. “I need to cut something.”
“Stay away from me, devil woman,” Reese muttered, trying to turn away from her and keep the knife out of her reach.
Jo laughed and went back to cleaning his wound. “You big baby…”
Chapter 20
Ellsworth, Maine
It turned out, to Reese’s surprise, that one could make a passable bed from sacks of rice. He stretched in his makeshift camp and tried for the thirtieth time to fall asleep. Next to him, Ben snored softly, and Jo had already begun to breathe deep.
Reese couldn’t fall asleep, though. The pain in his shoulder was still there, but it was distant, like a faded memory. The Advil Jo had dosed him with before they’d found a comfortable spot in the store to rest had done its job. But still, he was restless.
It wasn’t the pain that kept Reese awake, nor was it the images of the riot out front that flashed through his mind every time he closed his eyes. He could still see that knife—his knife—flash in the air like lightning as the rioter raised it to plunge into Cal Foster’s back. He remembered how his legs tensed as he lunged forward and the impact of their bodies shuddered through his shoulders and down his spine. He especially remembered the flat, brutal impact of his face with the pavement.
Reese moved his left hand in the darkness and gingerly touched the still raw scrapes on his chin and cheek. Ben had said it looked like a jar of tomato sauce had exploded in his face. Compared to his shoulder, his face didn’t hurt all that much, but it was definitely tender to the touch.
Reese shifted from his back to his good side and exhaled. What was it then? What kept him awake when he so desperately wanted—needed—sleep? He closed his eyes and thought of Cami and Amber, alone in the night, thousands of miles away.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Nope. It wasn’t worry. He was definitely concerned for their safety, but Cami was a prepper. She had plans seven ways from Sunday for when things went sideways and she was a registered hunting guide. If there was any woman on the planet who could take care of herself, it was Cami. She was trained to enter the woods with nothing but what she carried in and survive for weeks on end. Not to mention, hunt some of the most dangerous animals in North America.
Eventually, Reese worked his way around every worry and concern floating in his mind and scratched them each off the list. Until he got to Ellsworth’s Chief of Police, Cal Foster. He’d granted Reese, Jo, and Ben rights to sleep in the Walmart, restock, and eat their fill—provided they kept watch over the store during the night and leave town in the morning. Reese had every intention of leaving town in the morning—especially after almost dying in a full-on riot.
It was the keep watch over the store part that nagged his mind into remaining conscious. He’d given his word to watch the store, after Foster had informed him of a growing concern the rioters might return. Reese was nothing if not a man of his word. And so, he stayed awake.
He sighed. “Looks like I’m not getting any sleep tonight.”
“Neither will we, if you keep talking to yourself,” muttered Jo from the darkness nearby.
Reese heard her roll over, the fabric of her clothes scratching against whatever it was that she’d selected for bedding material. “Never thought I’d find sleeping on bags of cotton balls uncomfortable.” Jo huffed and fidgeted again.
Ben groaned. “What is it with you guys? Why can’t you just go to sleep?”
“We’re supposed to be watching the store,” Reese muttered.
“With what, Reese? Night vision?” asked Ben. “Look around, man, we could be under attack right now and never know someone was even in the building.”
“Now, boys, don’t fight,” chided Jo, though Reese could detect the humor in her voice.
Reese rolled onto his back again and winced at the twinge of pain from his shoulder. He’d try one more time to get some rest, then get up and patrol the store as best he could in the dark. With a knife. He smirked at the insanity of it all.
Sometime in the next few minutes, Ben and Jo both fell back asleep, and the regular, deep sounds of breathing became all that Reese could hear. Again.
Until it wasn’t.
A soft clang echoed from the rear of the store, toward the stock room. Reese opened his eyes and held his breath, straining to hear in the tomb-like silence. There it was again, a soft, barely audible noise that made him think of metal—maybe wrapped in cloth—striking metal.
He sat up, sacks of rice rustling under him until he got his feet on the floor and stood. Ben coughed, but didn’t wake, and Jo continued to breathe deeply.
Clang. Clang-clang.
Reese’s heart rate picked up. That wasn’t a normal sound. Someone was trying to break in the back door. Chief Foster had warned him of that, lamenting the fact that he only had five functional officers after the riot. Seven had been injured and three of those were critical. There was no way he could maintain control over the whole building and keep the crowd out front at bay with nine men, half of whom were injured. There was a real concern the three critically injured officers might even succumb to their wounds before dawn.
Clang.
Reese tried to bend down and wake Ben quietly but hit his head on a metal shelf in the darkness. Cursing, he rubbed the sore spot and tripped over Ben, tumbling to the floor in a heap.
“Alright, alright,” Ben groused. “You could have just said, ‘Hey, wake up,’ you know…”
“Will you two keep it down, a girl can’t get her beauty rest if—”
“Sssh!” Reese hissed, his face contorted by the pain in his forehead. He rubbed it angrily and knelt to whisper. “Someone’s outside the stock room hitting something…listen.”
A moment later: clang.
“Are you kidding me right now?” asked Ben in a hoarse whisper.
“What do we do?”
Reese looked where Jo’s voice had come from. “We have to warn Chief Foster—he was afraid someone would try to break in the back while his men were occupied out front.” Reese grimaced. “Someone’s got to check it out.”
Ben tried to get up, but Jo stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t—that leg has swollen up like a balloon,” she said in a trembling voice. “You try hobbling off to be the hero and you’ll only make it worse. I’ll go.”
“No, you won’t,” Reese said, trying to sound like a leader. “I got us into this mess, I’ll go. You get out front and warn Chief Foster.”
“But, your shoulder—”
“Doesn’t even hurt that bad, and I have the knife.” Reese gritted his teeth. “Go on, git.”
“Don’t gotta be rude about it,” Jo grumbled, but she got to her feet and worked her way toward the front of the sto
re, illuminated by the arc lights out in the parking lot.
“Sorry, man,” Ben mumbled from his pallet on the floor. His hand reached out and gripped Reese’s forearm. “You know I’d come with you…”
“I know. Relax—I’ll go take a look, maybe yell a little, and they’ll probably run, especially when Jo brings the chief back.” He pulled Ben’s hand away. “Chill, man, I got this. Stay down and keep out of sight.”
Ben chuckled. “Done.”
Reese gripped his knife in a suddenly sweaty left hand and adjusted the sling Jo had made for his right arm. The sling—a field expedient t-shirt ripped off the sale rack at the front of the store—wasn’t holding together very well. “Here we go,” he muttered to himself.
Yet another obstacle had popped up to keep him from reaching Cami and Amber. He compressed his mouth into a tight line and felt his way toward the end of the aisle. Nothing was going to stop him from getting home, not tsunamis, not riots, not someone trying to break into a Walmart.
As he rounded the corner, he saw flashlights lancing through the darkness at the far end of the building. Reese ducked behind a display of diapers and felt a cold sweat break out over his chest and back. Not only were people already in the store, but they were prepared.
His heart threatening to escape his chest, Reese leaned around the boxes of diapers and counted. Four flashlights. That wasn’t so bad…unless they were armed. He swallowed and adjusted his slick grip on the knife. The lights had grouped together somewhere near the middle of the store. One or two aimed off in the distance, as if they were searching for something—or someone—while the other two pointed down at the ground. The group discussed something in soft murmurs, planning.
“They’re organized, too…” Reese breathed. “Great.” He had seen enough. He needed to warn Chief Foster. He was about to move when he heard another sound, much closer. Someone stumbled into a display and cursed loudly, as a thousand little individually wrapped somethings hit the floor and made an awful racket. The four flashlights swung as one in his direction.
Broken Tide | Book 1 | Overfall Page 21
