Gone ’Til November

by Wallace Stroby

  He was sweating freely now. Mosquitoes whined around his head. His foot caught a root and he fell hard to his knees, held on to the AK. He stayed like that, knees in the dirt, listening. He counted a long sixty, got to his feet again.

  The refinery loomed closer. He kept it as his landmark, stopping every few feet to listen. When he came out onto the service road, there were shacks to his left and, parked in front of them, the dark shape of a vehicle, no one in it.

  He crossed the road, followed a chain-link fence to the rear of the refinery. Through the trees, he could see the glow of light inside the building.

  He found a spot where the fence sagged low, put a foot on it to push it down farther. He waited, listening. Then he stepped on the chain-link with both feet, rode it to the ground on the other side, stepped off. The sprung fence rose up wearily behind him.

  Sara looked at the open door, the catwalk beyond. She could see the flickering glow of the Coleman lamp below.

  Her head ached where it had hit the floor, but her vision had cleared. Billy was ignoring her, looking out into the night, the Bushmaster’s forend stock resting on the sill.

  She looked at the pipe again. It was maybe three inches in diameter, with a bolted elbow sleeve holding the horizontal and vertical ends together. It would have to be old, worn. If she could work at the sleeve, she might be able to pull one of the pipes loose. Less than an inch and she could slip the cuff through.

  Then what?

  She looked at his back. If she could get free, through that door and down those stairs fast enough, she could find a way out. Would he shoot her in the back?

  If you’re quick enough, he won’t get the chance.

  At the window, Billy braced the butt of the rifle against his shoulder. He pointed the muzzle out into the darkness, slipped his finger over the trigger.

  When he reached the edge of the trees, Morgan saw them, moving shadows against a deeper blackness. Four men. They came together in the moonlight, gathering around one of them who gave instructions with hand gestures. They all wore ski masks. The leader and another man carried rifles, the familiar silhouette of the AK. Above them, Morgan could see light in the rear windows. That’s where the money is, he thought. My money.

  They split up. The leader and another went around to the front of the building, one on each side. Morgan could see a rear door now. The two that were left approached it, one with an AK at port arms, the other with an automatic in a two-handed grip. They stopped a few feet from the door, as if awaiting a signal.

  Morgan watched them. Years since he’d fired an AK. He lifted it to his shoulder, left hand bracing the stock, right hand closing around the pistol grip, finger sliding over the trigger. The two were about a hundred feet away, their backs to him.

  He stepped out of the trees.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Sara jumped when she heard the shooting. It came from behind the refinery, the flat crack, crack, crack of an automatic rifle.

  Billy looked at her. Then they heard movement out front, and he was back at the window, firing, the AR-15 bucking, brass clattering on the concrete floor. She could hear yelling, the noise of the rifle drowning it out, echoing through the room.

  He wheeled away from the window, and shots came through the empty frame, punched into the ceiling. A stray bullet sparked the wall near her, whined away inches from her ear, hit something farther back in the room. Then more shots, shouting from outside.

  He took aim again, fired until the bolt locked back, swung away.

  “Got the bastard that time.”

  He ejected the magazine, reversed it, slapped the full one in, turned back to the window.

  She pulled hard on the cuff, heard the pipes rattle, pulled again, felt a little give. Then the shots and shouting were closer, and she knew they were inside.

  Morgan watched the two men go down. The butt of the AK kicked against him, the barrel rising. He heard shells hit wood, break glass.

  The one with the handgun rolled, got to his feet, sprinted for the left side of the building and cover. Morgan shifted his aim, squeezed the trigger, muzzle flashes making spots dance in front of his eyes. He saw splinters fly from the side of the building, heard ricochets whine off, and then the man was gone, out of sight and range.

  Morgan turned, fired again at the man on the ground, bullets kicking up dirt. Then the gun was empty and smoking, the noise still echoing in his ears. He dropped it in the dirt and drew the Beretta.

  Billy turned from the window, looked at her, then at the door, the catwalk. More shouting came from inside. He took the Glock, pushed it into the belt at the small of his back. The Python went into the front, butt angled to the right. He gripped the rifle.

  “Billy, don’t go out there. Don’t do it.”

  Then he was through the door and gone.

  When Morgan got to the man on the ground, he was facedown, motionless. Morgan kicked the AK away, went past him to the door, pulled on the handle. It rattled but didn’t open.

  Shots from inside, the chatter of an AK and then another gun, spaced shots. Flashes in the windows above him. He went to the loading dock, pulled himself up onto it. There was another door here, set in the wall beside the roll-up gate. He tried it. Locked. He aimed the Beretta at the keyhole, fired three times, metal fragments and wood splinters flying back at him, then kicked at the door, felt it give.

  Alone in the room, Sara swiveled to look at the pipe. She pulled on the cuff again, saw her wrist was bleeding, but there was more give, the elbow sleeve looser than before.

  From down below, the sound of Billy’s rifle, then other shots, bullets whining off the catwalk. One flew into the room, winged off the ceiling above her. Dust drifted down.

  She slid the cuff up onto the horizontal pipe, braced her hips and back against the concrete floor for leverage, raised her right foot. Outside, the popping of the Bushmaster echoed away, fell silent. Then other, scattered shots. Pistol fire.

  She kicked, the heel of her sneaker thudding into the underside of the horizontal pipe. Once, twice. Pain in her heel, her ankle, but the slight squeal of metal giving way. She kicked out again, felt the pipe loosen, the sleeve almost free.

  When Morgan came through the door, it was all over. Flynn stood in the center of the big room, lit by the glow of a camping lamp atop a crate. An automatic rifle lay at his feet, casings scattered on the floor. In his right hand, he held the big revolver Morgan had seen before, a Colt Python. His left was pressed against his stomach, and Morgan could see blood there. The room reeked of gunpowder.

  Morgan stayed in the shadows, unseen. There were two bodies on the floor, about ten feet apart. One was facedown, an AK just out of reach. The leader. The other was slumped in a sitting position against a wall, ski mask shredded, half his head shot away, a handgun in his lap. Moths flitted around the lamp.

  The leader shuddered, coughed. Flynn walked stiffly toward him.

  There were three short steps from the loading dock to the main floor. Morgan went down them without a sound.

  The man on the floor moaned. Flynn stood over him.

  “What was that?” Flynn asked, his words slurry. “I can’t hear you.”

  Another moan. Flynn bent, caught a fistful of the man’s shirt, dragged him over onto his back. The man cried out in pain. Flynn pulled the ski mask away.

  “Still can’t hear you,” he said and pointed the Colt at the man’s face, the muzzle inches from his right eye. The man looked up at him.

  “Kolan guete . . .” he said. “Maman ou . . . Bouzin.” He spit.

  “Didn’t work out the way you planned, did it?” Flynn said and pulled the trigger.

  When she heard the gunshot, Sara drove her heel up again into the pipe and it bent abruptly, the metal sleeve popping off, clattering on the floor. The two pipes sagged, ends falling away from each other. She ran the cuff along the top pipe and then it was off and she was free. She rolled to her feet.

  Morgan stepped out of the shadows, pointed the
Beretta at Flynn’s back.

  “Don’t turn around,” he said. “Just drop the gun.”

  Flynn didn’t move.

  “Drop it or you’re dead right here, right now.”

  Flynn tried to straighten, the gun hung at his side.

  “You can still walk away from this,” Morgan said. “You just need to tell me where that money’s at. But first you need to drop that gun.”

  Flynn gave a flat laugh that turned into a wet cough. He spit blood on the floor. Then he started to turn.

  Sara looked around. No weapons in the room. She could hear talking below, then Billy’s laugh, a cough. She looked at the half-open gearbag, caught it by its straps, felt its weight. Then she was out on the catwalk, looking over the railing at the two of them below, lit by the single lamp, the black man called Morgan, gun up and steady. Billy, bloody and bent, turning to face him.

  Morgan’s finger was tightening on the trigger when he heard the shout. He looked up and there was the woman deputy, at the catwalk railing, lifting something over her head, throwing it at him. He raised the Beretta.

  She swung the bag, aiming it as best she could, the weight tearing it from her fingers. It turned over twice in its flight and Morgan stepped back, away from it, gun up, and Sara heard the shot, saw the bag jink in midair as the bullet hit it, and then it was falling the rest of the way, and she knew her only chance was gone.

  Morgan stepped away and the bag thudded onto the floor with an upkick of dust, packets of money flying out. Flynn stumbled back, a hand raised against the dust. Then he saw the money, realized what it was. He brought the Python up and the woman screamed no no no no no and then the Python’s hammer fell with a dry click on a spent shell.

  Morgan shot him three times.

  THIRTY

  The shots sounded almost as one. Sara saw Billy spin away, the Colt fly from his hand. He twisted, fell hard, and then she was running down the stairs, and when she reached the bottom, Morgan was pointing his gun at her.

  “Just stay right there,” he said. “No need to come any closer.”

  She didn’t move. After a moment, he lowered the gun, crouched, turned the bag right side up, gathered the bricks of money from the floor, put them back in, watching her. When he had them all, he tugged at the zipper, got it halfway closed. Then he lifted the bag by a carry strap, looked at her, slung it over his left shoulder. He shook his head.

  “Foolish,” he said. Then he turned his back on her and walked away.

  • • •

  Morgan went back the way he’d come. Up the steps to the loading dock, through the ruined door. The bag was heavier than he expected, the strap cutting into his shoulder. It felt good.

  He scrambled down from the loading dock. The man in the dirt hadn’t moved. Morgan headed for the trees.

  Billy was still breathing. She ripped his shirt open, the flannel already soaked through with blood. Four entry wounds, three in the chest, one in the stomach.

  He coughed once, looked up at her. Don’t die, you son of a bitch. Don’t die on me. Not like this.

  “Your cell, Billy. Where is it?”

  His eyes seemed to drift in and out of focus. He raised his right hand toward her.

  “Where’s your phone?”

  She patted his jeans, felt the bulk in his right pocket. She reached in, got the phone out. A handcuff key tumbled after it.

  She opened the phone, fingers slick with blood, turned it on. She waited for it to glow into life, then punched in 911. As the call went through, he touched her face gently. She could feel the warmth of his blood.

  Halfway through the woods, he ejected the clip from the Beretta, replaced it with a full one. The moon was high and bright, made it easier to find his way.

  He began to feel flush, hot. He stopped for a moment, let the dizziness pass, felt the first glow of pain in his right side. He caught a tree limb, held on to it for balance. The strap slid from shoulder to elbow.

  He stayed that way for a moment, breathing in, filling his lungs. Then he let go of the branch, pushed the strap back up his shoulder, kept going.

  She worked the key in the lock and the cuff came loose, the shiny metal smeared with her blood. She tossed the cuffs away, saw the cuts left on her wrist.

  Billy’s eyes were open, his chest rising and falling slowly. She’d taken the lamp from the crate, set it beside him.

  “It’ll be okay,” she said. “An ambulance is coming. It’s on its way. You’re going to be all right.”

  He half-smiled at her and then coughed, pearls of blood on his lips. She put a palm on his face, and he laid a bloody hand over it, held it.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she said and felt the wetness in her eyes spill onto her cheeks.

  She watched the light go out of his eyes, a soft breath escape his lips. His eyes half closed, as if he’d grown drowsy without warning. His hand slipped from hers. She knew he was gone.

  Morgan reached the first service road sooner than he expected. The vehicle was still there, in front of the shacks, and he saw now it was the woman’s Blazer. He thought about shooting out a tire, but there was no time to waste. Others would be here soon. He had what he’d come for.

  The pain was still sharp in his stomach, but the dizziness seemed to be gone. His skin felt cool where the sweat had dried.

  He pushed through trees, undergrowth, branches snagging at the bag. Twice he had to stop to pull it loose. Then the trees thinned, moonlight shining through, and he was at the second road. He started down it, saw the outline of the Lexus. The driver’s side door was open, the interior light on. He saw the dreadlocked boy sprawled there, half in the car, half on the road, trying to pull himself up onto the seat, his face dark with blood. Morgan raised the Beretta.

  Sara could hear sirens far away. She knelt on the concrete beside him, his face turned to the side, his chest still. She’d checked his carotid pulse twice, known what she would find.

  She stood, wiped her bloody hands on her jeans. The sirens grew louder.

  He’s still out there, somewhere close. Maybe waiting to open fire on them when they get here. They could be driving right into it, not knowing.

  She could stay here, let him get away. Let the danger pass. No one would blame her.

  She knelt again, reached beneath Billy, felt his warmth, gently tugged the Glock from his belt.

  She fumbled with bolts at the front door, pushed against rusty hinges to get it open. She went out into moonlight, a wide clearing. A figure in a ski mask lay sprawled in the dirt, face up, not moving. She pointed the Glock at him as she went past.

  At the metal frame gate, she bent, squeezed through the horizontal bars. Then she was on the service road, moving up it with the Glock in a two-handed grip in front of her. She saw the Blazer ahead, went around it to make sure no one was there. She looked at the dirt and saw no tire tracks other than her own.

  He didn’t walk here. He’s got a vehicle someplace.

  Her tac bag was in the backseat where she’d left it. She got the Kevlar vest out, pulled it on over her sweatshirt, worked the Velcro snaps.

  Then, in the distance, she heard the single gunshot.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Morgan stepped over the body, started down the road to the Monte Carlo. He could hear far-off sirens.

  When he reached the car, he decocked the Beretta, pushed it into his belt, got the keys out, dropped them. He felt fresh sweat on his forehead, a growing pain in his stomach. He bent, picked up the keys, and the vertigo hit him. He fell against the side of the car, put a hand on the fender to steady himself.

  Not now, he thought. You need to keep moving. You need to get out of here.

  He got the driver’s side door open, set the gearbag on the seat, pushed it over as he got behind the wheel. He fumbled with the keys, his fingers unresponsive, dropped them again. He got the ignition key in, pulled the door shut. He ground the starter on the first try, got it going on the second.

  The road was too narrow to
turn around, and he couldn’t risk backing up all the way down to the highway. He set the Beretta on the seat, pulled ahead. There was a clearing past the Lexus, enough room to make a three-point turn, face back the other way.

  He swung left, cleared the car and the body, trees scratching the driver’s side. He turned the Monte Carlo across the road, reversed until his rear bumper crunched into undergrowth. He had to do it twice more to bring the car’s nose around.

  Lights off, he looked past the Lexus, down the length of the moonlit road to the highway beyond.

  Sara gunned it, driving with the windows down, listening over the sound of the engine, the growing sirens. The Glock was on the seat beside her. In the rearview, she could see two bloody fingerprints on her cheek.

  Then she saw the second service road ahead, started to brake. That was where the shot would have come from, where the vehicle would be. The only place.

  She barely made the turn, tires squealing, kicking up dust as she took the hard right. The Blazer clattered over the canal bridge, and the Glock flew from the seat onto the floor. She hit the gas, switched on her high beams, roared up the narrow service road. Then she saw the car.

  Morgan looked at the onrushing headlights, hit the brakes hard. The Monte Carlo’s nose dipped, and the gearbag rolled off the seat and thumped on the floor.

  He slammed the shifter into reverse, hit the gas, backed up toward the Lexus. The headlights came toward him. He thought about abandoning the car, heading out on foot. He wouldn’t get far carrying the bag, though, and he’d come too far, done too much, to leave it.

  He braked, the car rocking, shoved it into park, gripped the Beretta, and opened the door.