Shifting my focus out to the left, I zoned in on the man standing over his cohort, the gunshots seeming to have paralyzed him, and squeezed the trigger, his body rising, tensing, before falling prone atop his friend.
That was two.
Pushing the muzzle of my gun back toward the front corner, I paused, waiting for a sign of movement that never came. Whoever was there had retreated back inside, fortifying his position, waiting for me to make a mistake.
I’d be damned if I was going to make it that easy for him.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Steam continued to rise from the front end of Mike’s Switchback, the engine just starting to cool. Wedged against the far corner of the doorway, it looked like an enormous bug, the elongated black body bunched into a wad.
Once more I laid a burst of suppression fire at the front edge of the door, this time not bothering to wait for a response, not even letting the sparks clear the air before turning my focus on the shattered snowmobile.
I didn’t bother with just a single burst, keeping my finger tight on the trigger, sending a steady hail of bullets at the machine.
As such, it was impossible for me to tell which one finally struck the gas tank, igniting the liquid accelerant.
What was clear was that it worked, the machine turning into a fiery pyre, the body rising more than four feet off the ground. When it reached the apex of its ascent, it seemed to hang suspended before a second explosion occurred, this one taking the entire engine with it, shrapnel shooting out over 20 feet in every direction.
As soon as the initial shock wave of the blast passed, I was on my feet and moving as fast as I could, snow clumped to the front of my clothes, falling away as I moved. With my right hand along the trigger guard, my left around the underside of the stock, I churned through the deep snow, ignoring the protests of my legs, my focus on the front corner of the door.
Heat emanated off the charred skeleton of the snowmobile as I approached. I slid to a knee along the front corner, taking up a position just inches away from where the second gunman had been a few moments before.
Dropping flat to my stomach, I held the M-16 in firing position before me, twisting my body around the edge, peering inside the cavernous space.
As best as I could tell, it was a single room, the snow coach Ferris and I had seen earlier parked ahead of me, the trailer still hitched to the back of it. Beyond that a second lab was already well underway, most of the chemical reservoir and piping in place, a few odds and ends still missing.
To my left a small room jutted out, a makeshift structure thrown together for sleeping or storage.
A blur of movement drew my attention back to the lab, a black flash that was gone as fast as it appeared.
Otherwise, I could see nobody.
I knew that two men were already dead, and I knew that both Sam Cuddyer and Jasper Maxx had been at the original house. I also knew that somebody had driven that snow coach over to this new site, and he hadn’t showed up alone.
That meant a minimum of two people were still left inside, possibly as many as four or five.
Keeping my weapon set to a three-shot burst, I raised myself up onto my knees. I didn’t know exactly how many I had fired to ignite the snowmobile, only that I had just under half the clip remaining before it would be time to switch to the Walthers. At that point my range would diminish greatly, as would my ability to spray, but my aim would improve.
Ideally, things wouldn’t get that far.
Releasing the grip of my left hand from the stock, I peeled the goggles off the top of my head, hefting them twice before tossing them several feet into the room. On cue, as if summoned, a trio of gunshots erupted, someone getting anxious, shooting at the first sign of movement.
I could still hear the sound of the shots pinging against the wall as I dropped flat onto my left shoulder, the M-16 extended before me, and squeezed off a quick burst.
All three were aimed too close to the wall, the shooter out a little wider, moving in a sideways motion toward the cover of the lab tables. With one arm stretched in my direction, he began to fire a steady stream of bullets, not even looking as he snapped off shots, the rounds slamming into the wall or passing through the open door, all of them well above my head.
Slowing my breathing just slightly, I sighted in on him as he continued to make his way forward, cutting him down halfway across the floor, his arms jerking back by his sides, his weapon flung in the air.
He was dead before he hit the floor, his head smacking against the concrete, blood puddling around him.
That was three.
Rolling onto my chest, for the first time I was exposed, my body extending out into the room, an easy target if somebody saw me.
Clawing with my hands and boots, all wet with snow, I fought for purchase on the sealed concrete. My gaze was fixed on the back end of the snow coach as I scrambled to my feet, keeping myself bent at the waist, duck-walking across the open expanse for cover.
Halfway across I raised the M-16 and fired off another round of suppression fire, not even looking where I was shooting, hoping the sound was enough to keep whoever might be out there at bay.
Three more steps and I completely gave up on the hunched movement, rising to full height and running as hard as I could, unable to feel my legs, only knowing that they were working because the van continued to grow closer.
Everything - from my lungs to my quads and hamstrings - craved oxygen as I dove between the trailer and the rear of the van, the side window shattering just ahead, return fire coming from the far end of the room.
Once the first round found a target it seemed to embolden my opponent, the shots coming faster. A moment later, a second shooter joined in – one offering the rat-a-tat of an AK, the other, the smaller crack of a handgun.
Wedged in tight along the rear bumper, the thick rubber tread of the tank track offering me protection, I drew the M-16 up in front of me.
I was down to my last couple of rounds before having to switch to the handguns, and I knew I had two shooters on the opposite end of the room, perhaps more hidden about the space.
Rounds continued to slam into the van, the sound of glass breaking audible above me, punctuated by metal slamming into the body of the vehicle. After a few moments the sound of the handgun faded away just long enough to reload before beginning again, a few rounds striking the concrete nearby, sending up the occasional spark as it skipped across the ground before pinging into the wall behind me.
Waiting, concentrating, I continued to listen for the sound of a third weapon, for any indication of someone else inside.
Happy to oblige, rounds continued slamming into the van, never once changing their sound or direction, coming in a steady pattern. They continued for more than two full minutes before slowing, finally dropping off entirely.
The inside of the barn fell silent, the persistent wind outside the only sound.
Still, I waited, straining, listening for what I knew would soon be coming, the indication that it was my turn again.
When at last it finally found my ears, it was all I could do to keep from smiling.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The sound of voices drifted through the room, just as I hoped they would. Masked as whispers, they were loud enough for me to hear over the sound of the wind outside, confirming what the gunfire had already told me.
There were only two of them.
They were squirreled away at the end of the lab tables, too far to hear what they were saying, but close enough for me to tell that the two were not in agreement.
If I were to guess, based on the tone, I would say that they were from opposing factions, one from the original Cuddyer clan, the other from the crew sent in as cleanup. Who they were and what they were saying, I couldn’t care less, my entire focus on killing them both and getting Yvonne out of the cold and away to safety.
After the better part of a minute, they stopped pretending to whisper, the words exchanged growing more
hostile. It was apparent they must have thought they finished me off, my lack of return fire and the state of the van both giving them the false assumption that I was done.
Most likely the argument was over who would be the one to walk up and make sure, neither one wanting to step away from the safety of the heavy wooden tables.
I had to assume that if they had any grenades on them, or anything heavier than small arms, they would have already used it, the van an easy target that would have taken me out when it exploded.
Which left me with a choice to make.
I could stay where I was, wait for their bickering to end, for one of them to emerge and walk directly toward me. At that point I would have a clean line of fire, after which the remaining combatant and I would be stuck firing at one another, making it a war of attrition.
Conversely, I had a second option, which was to hurry things along. I had to remember that Yvonne was still outside, lying unconscious in the snow.
That single thought, the mental image of her tucked against the side of the building, her curly hair billowed out around her head, pushed the first choice completely from mind.
Over the course of the last day there was no telling what that girl had been subjected to. I would be damned if she had fought so hard only to freeze to death while I traded shots with a bad guy.
As quietly as I could, I unfastened the banana clip from the bottom of the M-16, hefting it twice in my hand, feeling the weight of no more than a handful of rounds left inside. A bit of the familiar dread settled into my stomach as I snapped it back into place, flipping the select down to single shot.
Rising onto a knee, I turned to face the rear of the van, bringing the rifle to my shoulder.
I was only going to get a few cracks at this.
I had to make them count.
Driving up off my back foot, I rose to full height, stepping away from the vehicle. No return fire came my way as I emerged, the two men still arguing, their voices audible right up until the moment I pulled the trigger, letting the first bullet fly.
Tailing high and right from my target, the round caromed off a copper pipe running the length of the tables, sparks rising in its wake. A moment later it could be heard smashing into the far wall as I adjusted my aim and pulled the trigger a second time, the round going just a bit left of my goal.
Coming to a complete stop, ignoring the first crack of a handgun as return fire came my way, I sighted in on what I wanted, letting out a slow breath before squeezing back on the trigger.
A split second after letting the bullet fly it found its mark, smashing into the closest chemical vat. On contact the container went up in a twisted inferno, setting off a chain reaction that engulfed the table. Shards of plastic and wood were sent high into the air, hanging suspended for a moment, all of them smoldering or burning bright, before falling to the floor.
One by one, more than a half dozen tubs went up in quick order, each seeming to be a bit larger than the one before it, obliterating that side of the building as I shifted my attention to the other side and opened fire again.
This time I didn’t have to be quite so careful, unloading everything I had left in the clip, the end unit going ablaze just as the firing pin began to click empty, the weapon in my hand reduced to one hellacious club and nothing more.
Whatever little return fire there had been was gone, replaced by the sound of the shrapnel from the twin units being annihilated hitting the concrete, nothing more remaining than the charred bases of the tables and assorted debris. Black smoke hung thick in the air, coupled with the smell of chemicals, my eyes beginning to water as I drew the Walthers and stepped forward, holding them both at arm’s length before me.
Moving out wide to the left of the wreckage, I increased my pace to a jog, keeping my knees bent, watching for any shadows, any sign of movement through the thick haze hanging in the room.
After the weight of the M-16 the Walthers felt light in my hands, my index fingers looped through the trigger guards, ready to squeeze off a round at anything left standing. As I moved, a familiar scent found my nose, mixed with the acrid smell of chemicals and smoldering wood.
The odor was undoubtedly charred flesh, though if it was one or both men, I had no way of knowing.
I could feel beads of sweat along my scalp as I inched forward, the heavy watch cap and the fire burning nearby raising my body temperature. It was time to end this and get outside, perspiration something I could ill afford once I stepped back outside.
Dropping a few more inches, I increased my speed, swinging around the end of the table.
There, on the floor, lay the source of the smell.
Dressed in solid black, just like the snowmobiler and the man I had shot upon entering, he looked to be extremely tall, having at least several inches on me. His winter clothes were still smoldering, his face charred and blistered, unrecognizable as human.
There was no need to waste a bullet or to give away my position by firing into a corpse.
I had one more yet to find.
In the closed end of the barn there was nowhere for the smoke to go, rising to the ceiling and swirling like a cyclone. From where I stood I couldn’t get much of a read on anything nearby, the fifth man either hiding or dead.
I had to assume he was hurt, but I also knew he was armed.
Backing out the way I had come, I returned to my crouch, moving past the front end of the tables, the smoke thinning around me.
Once I was out in the open, I turned and sprinted for the coach, coming up along the driver’s side. Pressed tight against the exterior, I inched my way toward the shattered window beside the steering wheel and stuck my hand in, flipping on the headlights.
The beams cut a wide path through the thin smoke hovering close to the floor, illuminating everything for more than 50 feet ahead.
The charred remains of the lab. The makeshift room built off to the side.
The outline of a man trying in vain to crawl across the floor.
Standing there, looking at everything before me, I couldn’t help but feel that the scene was like something scripted. It was the moment in an old movie where the protagonist saw his enemy struggling, knowing he had won, turning to the camera to deliver a witty one-liner, something to make the folks at home clap their hands and cheer.
I had no interest in doing anything of the sort. He was the last remaining bad guy, likely one of Yvonne Endicott’s kidnappers and who knew what else.
He didn’t deserve the dignity of any final words.
Keeping my left arm outstretched, I grabbed the second weapon from my pocket, raised it alongside the other, and took careful aim. I fired five rounds from each gun, seeing his body twitch on impact, at least half of them finding their mark.
Only then did I step away from the cover of the vehicle, moving straight ahead, watching for any sign of movement, my guns still held at the ready. I maintained that exact same position as I closed the distance between us before firing again, seeing the rounds strike flesh, his body giving no response.
The tension inside me eased a tiny bit as I covered the last few steps, walking close enough to see my final victim lying prone, his unseeing eyes staring straight up.
He was older than the mug shot, his beard had grown in, had some gray, but there was no mistaking him.
Sam Cuddyer was dead.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
In my haste to clear the barn, I had overlooked one detail. There were five able bodied men who lay dead. One by one I had stacked them into the snow coach, filling every available space.
What I had forgotten was the reason Yvonne Endicott had been abducted in the first place.
The answer to that I found inside the little plywood room, the man lying flat on a decrepit mattress, his shirt lifted to his chin. Nearly every bit of his exposed flesh was covered in severe burns, the need for medical attention obvious.
The fact that he had slept through two snowmobiles crashes, a lengthy firefight, and the demolit
ion of the entire lab told me the odds of him ever waking weren’t good, though I took no chances as I put two rounds into his chest before jerking his shirt down and adding him to the pile in the van.
Before beginning the cleanup, I had carried Yvonne inside, positioning her as close to the warmth of the burning benches as I could, dropping my coat onto the floor to keep her off the cold concrete.
Twice she had stirred while I relocated her, each time her eyes fluttering without fully opening, a string of mumbles passing over her lips, but nothing intelligible.
Just seeing the state she was in brought renewed anger, justifying everything I had done, confirming that I would do it again without hesitation. As pale as she was, it was plain to see that she had been beaten, her cheeks swollen and lopsided, heavy bruising on the left side.
What other abuse she had suffered I could only guess, moving her as gently as possible, hoping she would be able to endure the ride back to the hospital, the exact place her ordeal had started almost 20 hours before.
When I had left Mike’s, I hadn’t given much thought to cleanup, not until after the fact did my mind slow down enough to consider it.
People like Sam Cuddyer could not afford labs the likes of which Ferris and I had found earlier. They certainly didn’t have backup locations that were even larger, with teams dispatched to assist them in emergencies.
That meant that whoever he was cooking for had some clout, and needed enough product to warrant putting in the time and expense for everything we had witnessed.
It also meant that Cuddyer feared him enough to risk going after Yvonne and nabbing her to begin with.
That left only two possibilities for the source of funding, one being Billings, the other being the oil fields. Given the geographic location and the amount of time it took reinforcements to arrive, it wasn’t hard to put together where the product was meant to go, many of the new people Ferris mentioned the likely consumers of Cuddyer’s product.
My time in Montana had kept me away from situations like this, but it was pretty clear that anybody with a meth business of this scale would not take kindly to a half dozen associates being killed.
Fire and Ice: A Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 3) Page 22
